In Love With Love

The sky streaks orange behind you, a smudge of pastel colors colliding with the pristine sea. Seabirds chant in the distance. Wayward branches slap against your windshield as music fills the cabin.  

It’s peaceful out as the day lazily concedes to nightfall. It’s been calm on this road lately, as if some greater force is holding the heavens apart to make your journey less arduous. 

You arrive at a clearing haloed by towering trees. Roots crack beneath your tires when you draw the vehicle to a stop. You kill the engine, the serene burr of the forest unfolding as if welcoming you with a red carpet.

A smile warms your lips. Something near excitement slowly puddles in your chest. 

Peeling yourself from the driver’s seat, you round the vehicle to fetch your pack from the trunk. After slinging it onto your shoulders and adjusting the straps, you glance skyward, hand raised to shield your eyes from the sun’s brilliance. 

Amber light dapples the ground through the leaves above. It’s enough to get you to your final destination with daylight to spare. 

Looking to the sloped path ahead, adorned with local flora and sea-weathered trees bending outwards like they’re bowing, you test the durability of your soles before beginning your hike. 

It’s humid. Not unpleasant, but enough to bathe your skin in a dewy sheen of sweat. The path is too narrow and steep for your Jeep to navigate. Not that you mind walking, with distant ocean waves licking the shoreline and wings fluttering in the treetops, offering you company. 

You know this trail like it’s etched onto the surface of your brain. How many steps it takes before reaching the cliff. Where the density of the forest fades, where mangled roots and loose gravel yield to stone. It’s become something of a weekly pilgrimage. A ritual sewn so deeply into the fabric of your routine, you feel antsy when you don’t make it out to this side of the island. 

By the time you reach the top, winded yet exhilarated from the climb, a familiar stone arch greets you, its tip shining like polished gold held to the sun. It scrapes the sky, half-buried under moss and vines winding through cracks formed from years of disrepair. Despite its age, it’s still impressive, siphoning your breath when your shoes scrub to a stop at its threshold. 

As you ascend the stairs leading past the archway, you’re flanked by two statues on the rails, eroded by time. One is birdlike, massive wings folded towards a bowed back, a talon raised in offering. The other statue is broken in half—destroyed by the storms, no doubt—with a stone bowl at its feet.

You recall the words of the locals as you pull on your pack’s strap, how their eyes creased with wistfulness whenever you inquired about this place. They recited the same line as if it were second nature. A quiet, mindless part of their culture whispered down since their ancestors inhabited this island. 

“To receive, you must give selflessly.”

You pat the partially intact sculpture on its crown before ascending the remaining steps.

The entrance trembles when compared to the temple beyond, hidden at the top by centuries of overgrowth. 

Wild ivy coils around cracked columns. Warped trees push through the remnants of a collapsed roof, replacing it. The temple’s inner sanctum is mostly intact, save for uneven stones jutting from the floor, moss blooming from the seams, and the walls yellowed by time. 

When compared to how it looked a few months ago, it’s a pleasant change. No longer covered with graffiti or littered with beer cans and broken glass left by squatters. The air is still rife with dust, mildew, and sea spray. But the temple seems more alive now. Like it’s slowly releasing a centuries-old breath, courtesy of you putting your hands and Amazon Prime to good use.

Removing your backpack, you collapse the distance between you and the altar. Kneeling, you swipe a careful hand over the textured dais, a plume of dust stirring in the remaining sunlight. It’s warm here, an ancient, featherlike glyph carved into the platform’s surface beneath your palm. The warmth reminds you of a hand holding yours, squeezing it in a wordless greeting. 

After admiring the cipher for a beat longer, you set your bag down beside you. The jarring sound of the zipper reverberates off the high walls, competing with the waves crashing against the cliffside. Once opened, you procure a set of gifts from inside, coupled with your textbook and a water canteen. 

In your palms, you cradle vibrant hibiscus flowers—replacements for the wilted ones on the altar you brought last week. Next comes a cheesecloth filled with pastries you snagged from the night market. There would’ve been more, but someone couldn’t resist sampling some, the tart marriage of blackberries and dough reminding you of home. 

Lastly, you place the blanket, frayed at the ends but thoroughly loved with your scent enmeshed in its intricate weave, onto the altar. It’s brought you comfort many nights. Maybe it’ll help warm whatever cold soul still haunts this sacred place.

They’re mindless, the things you bring. Thoughtless. Pieces of you that would be useless to someone else. 

You never expect anything in return when you visit. Never anticipate anyone, let alone a god, responding to your voice carrying prayer and mindless chatter. But it feels nice to bring something, even if it will rot and collect dust, to the place that offered you reprieve when the storm cut like glacial, jagged sheets across your skin that night.

When you’re satisfied with your arrangement, you lean against a wall, a contented sigh pushing through your nostrils. You swirl the canteen in your hands after a swig, watching as the final vestiges of sunlight wane through the canopy, giving way to the soft spill of stars and moonlight. 

Before the clouds sweep in, you begin the other half of your ritual, pulling a lighter from your pocket and bounding around the temple to light the candles you brought some months back. The sanctum blooms with soft light, growing warmer like a hug to thank you for chasing away the darkness. 

You cross the temple again to pick up your book, hunkering down in an alcove to review some study material. 

You enjoy coming here, escaping from the languid buzz of the town on the island’s other side to bask in the serenity. There might not be a god left here to worship, to bring offerings to, to exalt. But that’s alright. 

To you, this place is a living, pulsing thing left behind in his absence. And, like a fallen god, it grows lonely when there’s no one left to scrub spray paint from its walls and to sweep cobwebs from its jaded ceiling. 

Essentially, you’re comforting this shrine. Safeguarding it. Repaying it for sparing you space beneath its wings, sheltering you until the waves calmed and the lightning receded. 

With your book in hand, knees tucked to your chest, and a quiet smile warming your face, you let the waves and wind threading through the treetops comfort you, blissfully unaware of the shadows opposite the altar pulling away from the candlelight’s dance.

—

In the native tongue, he’s known as Stayrus. 

Owner of the sacred temple you’ve converted into a book nook. 

In your language, his name translates to Sylus. Not nearly as cool as the former, and in your humblest opinion, just as easy to pronounce. 

After that fateful night his sanctuary shielded you from the storm you wandered into, you did some digging. 

You were pretty new to the island. A wanderer seeking reprieve from the city, hoping to continue their studies somewhere less fast-paced. More ambience. More freedom. You were a beach baby at heart, pining for the salt-stained air and sand scraping the interstices of your toes.

Through the local markets, fishing boats docked at the shore, and some sketchy Google searching, you’d gleaned that Stayrus was once a prolific god. He’d also become a fallen one as the centuries progressed until he vanished like the smoke of a pinched-out flame. 

Stayrus. God of Wealth. 

Not the sort of deity who blessed greedy merchants with gold and fattened monarchs’ pockets. He didn’t pull mermen from the sea, dropping them at the feet of fishermen unwilling to work for his blessings. Coins didn’t rain from the sky following a thoughtless offering, and paupers weren’t suddenly donning priceless gems on their fingers. 

No. 

Stayrus governed true abundance. Prosperity earned through courage, resiliency, and a little patience. Fortune amassed from weathering storms, literal and figurative. He rewarded diligence. Sweat. Blood. Sacrifice. Selflessness. 

Once, his shrine overlooking the coast was a popular pilgrimage site. Sailors left rum and tokens bearing the silhouettes of their ships at his altar. Farmers placed baskets of the first blooms of their harvests at the entrance. Traders adorned the steps with jewel-encrusted urns and lamps. His shrine once glittered like gold in the setting sun, it was so full of gifts. Couples tied red strings around the pillars, binding them to their clasped hands, praying for an unyielding future together.

But, like the tide, the worship waned. Empires came and fell. Beliefs changed. The world moved on, and people all but forgot about the beautiful deity who kept the sea in harmony and the town prosperous. 

At first, the natives didn’t speak of him to you as if they were taking part in a casual conversation about the weather. 

When you first inquired about the decrepit temple hidden by time and overgrowth, everyone looked at you like you’d grown a second head. Their gazes were flighty when they glanced at each other, as if you’d dug up a piece of the island’s past that should’ve stayed a murmur beneath the sand. 

You gently pressed until someone caved. An older native, grey hair gathered in a braid down her back, hands weathered and mottled by years working in the sun. With a reluctant sigh, she dropped the dried sage into her basket, dusted her hands off her apron, and cautiously took you by the wrist. 

She tugged you beneath the awning of her shop, glancing about with wariness lining her worn features. After wetting her lips with her tongue, she cradled both your hands in hers. Spoke low, the ambience of the beach threatening to swallow her words whole.

“Our ancestors called him The Keeper of Full Hands.”

You snorted at that, biting your lips when the older woman shot you a look. People weren't very good with names around here, were they? Ah well. You couldn’t complain. Stories passed down through word of mouth were more valuable than crumbs of information scraped from Reddit.

Through her, you learned that Stayrus wasn’t merely the God of Wealth because he could craft gold from thin air and grant impossible wishes.

He blessed people with what they needed rather than what they wanted. Food to survive the elements. Luck to keep the turbulent waves from sinking ships. Enough fortune to provide for their families. Shelter to stave off the world’s cruelty. Sunlight for their crops—despite how much he was rumored to abhor it—and rainfall to feed the fields that sustained livestock.

“Abundance without greed,” came her wistful words as she studied your hands clasped in hers. Crow’s feet creased her eyes when she peered at you with a smile. “That was his way. The words passed to us from our families and beyond.”

You continued to listen intently, your heart in your throat, after she guided you to sit whilst she finished stringing up her herbs and gave you her back.

“He punished greed. Thieves. Those who took more than what was given and thrived off the misery of others.”

The woman scooped up another handful of herbs, continuing her ritual of tying them together to be sold at her stall. Her voice steeped like she was winded. That, or like speaking of the fallen deity aloud would somehow invoke him after centuries of silence. 

“The last noble family that lived here tried to tear down his temple. They pilfered the offerings left at his altar and pocketed them. Desecrated the walls with nonsensical symbols for their own rituals. Spoke ill of him like he was an imposter masquerading as a god.” 

Wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, the shopkeeper laughed, her eyes lighting with the remnants of her youth. The sea breeze swept in, pulling some hair loose from her braid like the elements were taking part in her mirth.

“The sea swallowed their estate within weeks of them moving here. Crumbled up with the cliffs. No survivors. Not even rubble to show for it.”

A glacial chill racked your spine. You huffed an anxious breath disguised as a laugh, toying with the threads of your clothes. Whoever Stayrus was, he was no one to sneeze at. 

Gratefully, the older woman continued, disrupting the fear pricking your chest. 

“Times have changed since then. People no longer exalt gods who demand humility. Humans want wealth that grows without end. Instant gratification. No giving to receive.”

With her hands resting at the edge of the table, the woman exhaled, slowly looking at you with somberness knitting her brows. 

“Stayrus taught my ancestors balance. Punished wastefulness and those who demanded excess. He believed in gratitude over obsession. When we forgot that, he disappeared.” 

Her eyes softened when you stood beside her, leaning against the table’s edge with your arms crossed over your chest, lips scrawled into a pensive line. 

“Stayrus’ sanctuary fell quiet. He stopped answering prayers. Stopped holding back the storms. With time, reverence became fear. Fear bred hatred. And soon, everyone just…stopped believing.”

Following a dramatic pause, the woman pressed a bundle of lavender into your hands. Pat your wrist for good measure before returning her attention to her basket. The shift in her demeanor nearly gave you whiplash. 

“If you ever go up to his temple, bring an offering. He might be dormant now, but who’s to say he isn’t waiting for someone worthy to bring him back?”

The grin she flashed didn’t bode well. Had you been more attentive, you would’ve realized she was foreshadowing your fate. Almost like she was in cahoots with the slumbering deity. 

“Back then, he favored sincerity. Be intentional with what you bring and what you ask of him in return. To receive, you must give selflessly. If you’re patient, maybe he’ll bless you after all this time.”

With that, the conversation petered out, making way for the symphony of dried shrubbery working between the woman’s hands, her soft humming amid the caw of passing birds, and your pulse quivering in your neck.

—

Tonight, the temple breathes differently. 

It’s still warm, offering its hands beneath the soft spill of stars like a god extending mercy to those without a home to return to. But its heartbeat feels slower. A docile beast beneath your palm as you walk into its maw, touching the wall like an archeologist unearthing a hundred-year secret. 

Your veins are warm with rum. The friends you made in town insisted you try some when you wandered to the beach to wet your feet. They looked wary when they tried to invite you to the boardwalk, and you insisted you had somewhere else to be. Almost like everyone knew something you didn’t.  

It’s been a week since you last set foot in Stayrus’ temple. 

The candles you arranged on the windowsills remain untouched, wax pooled around their stems. There are a few leaves scattered on the ground. Brine in the air. But the shrine otherwise looks the same way you left it—tidy, sleepy, quiet, godless.

Your offerings at the altar lay unchanged, save for the hibiscus flowers curling into themselves in decay. 

“Sorry,” you murmur with a kneel, sweeping away the wilted petals, and replacing them with fresh blooms your new companions helped you pluck. “Got caught up with life. Forgot to stop by and say hi.” 

You run your hand over the raised dais in apology. Talking to an inanimate object—a temple—like it’ll answer back. Accept your bid for penance. There’s a new candle in the altar’s center, the wick white and unburned. You don’t recall it being there before, but you don’t always keep track of everything you leave here. 

Luckily, you keep the lighter tucked in your pocket. You light the candle, the slow exhale of the flame dancing over your features. You murmur a prayer to the sea-salted air. Words of thanks. Another apology. Sorry for leaving you alone. For taking so long to come back. 

Like always, you don’t expect a reply. Sometimes just talking helps you feel a sense of peace. A god needs memory to live. Even if you’re the only person to keep that flame of remembrance burning, you figure it’s worth a shot.

Your lids lower as you slump against the altar, a small smile twitching your lips. You’re feeling good from the alcohol. Not completely gone, but that pleasant sway between coherency and inebriation. 

It isn’t until the candle flickers, quivering like a skittish animal in your periphery, that you sense a change in the atmosphere. 

The air feels heavier. The silence is fuller, your ears ringing to dampen the symphony of the forest birds and insects outside. 

A whisper touches your ear. What feels like deft fingertips, graze your shoulder. You spin towards the source of the disquiet, your eyes landing on the moon-laden path of the ruins’ entrance, inebriation a distant memory. 

Something feels off in a way you can’t describe. A roiling, pinching feeling in your stomach, hairs standing ramrod stiff along your body, instinct telling you this isn’t right. 

You stand and investigate, convinced that some kids are playing a prank on you. When you find no one but the outline of tree branches on the stone steps, you lean against the threshold, trying to gather your bearings. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have drank. Because when you glance at the altar, you swear the shadows behind it are moving. Stretching, warping, yawning like a long-slumbering beast awoken from its nap. And the candles perched by the windows—they’re lit.

When the shadows peel away, retreating behind the column, fear roots you to the spot. Your eyes tend to play tricks on you, but not to this extent. 

The particles in the air shift, piling into something ominous. An amorphous figure takes shape. You hold your breath when it steps from behind the column as if summoned from the darkness, slowly uncovering itself like waves pulling back from the sand.

It moves, unhurried, languid, like it knows you. Like it’s been waiting for you longer than you can fathom. 

Your heart pulses with each measured, bare scrape of feet against the temple’s floor. 

An ivory cloak trembles as it moves, trimmed with gold that catches in the moonlight and beads that rake the ground. Scarlet glows from beneath, burning down to the hulls of your soul. The figure, a good head and shoulders above you, stops at the altar’s side, making even the shadows shudder in their presence. 

“You’re late,” croaks the sanctum’s new occupant, speaking as casually as they would to a longtime friend. 

It’s pleasant yet unsettling, that voice. Gruff yet disarming. Ancient. Otherworldly. A sound mortal ears weren’t meant to hear. You don’t know whether to run or remain still. And then, the being peels back the hood of their cloak in a dramatic flourish, your eyes widening with the revelation. 

The air thickens around you. You can’t help but stare, nearly swallowing your tongue. The being—a man—scrutinizes you with his lips drawn into a pensive line. A furrow between his brows. Hair reminiscent of seafoam, half-tied in a knot, whilst the rest waterfalls off his shoulders and down his back. 

The silence threads itself into something restricting. A snake coiling around your neck, threatening to cut the air from your lungs. The pressure he emits feels familiar, like the coast’s warmth coalesced into one. 

So distracted by this man’s beauty, you hardly register his earlier statement until reality slams back in, and you blink rapidly, trying your damndest to sober up.

“I’m sorry, what?” 

The man shifts, one hip poked out, arms folding over a broad chest. Even through the hang of his cloak, you can make out the masculine shape of his body. His expression doesn’t change. Still annoyed that you could be so daft. 

“You’re late, mortal. You were gone for far too long.”

His words hang in the air like the brine from the sea, like the moon rays pouring through the canopy above, limning him in its ethereal light. They’re more of a statement than a question. An admonishment wrapped in the celestial calm of a deity.

Deity?

Wait…what?

Realization descends, your mouth agape. You’d read about this—details of the once prolific God of Wealth.

The locals fed you scraps of what he looked like. Yellowed journals from ancient seafarers you found in the library gave you brief descriptions. Forum posts and artistic renditions online barely quenched your curiosity. The accounts varied, though some things remained consistent across each encounter: white hair, red eyes, a youthful face, an unmistakable nose. 

Something tightens in your chest. Your throat burns. Adrenaline spumes like lava through you, your body caught in a state of fight-or-flight. Any normal person would likely run, never to return. Bury the memory of what they saw in the deepest regions of their mind.

You?

You…you laugh. Incredulously. Fearfully. Still a laugh despite the gravity of your situation. Not only has a god, once thought to have disappeared from this world forever, manifested himself before you, flesh, ichor, beating heart. But now he’s scolding you.

Blinking, you scrape your nerves from the ground, an anxious tilt to your lips. “Uh, yeah. I had plans, and…things happened. Wait, what the hell am I saying?”

You shake your head, hoping to call up some sense. You have to be dreaming. A product of sleepless nights and stress from overwhelming yourself with your studies. Maybe the alcohol still singing your skin. No matter how much you try to make sense of things, the glowing man in white doesn’t leave, still very much real, and…is he pouting?

The being narrows his eyes, looking like you’ve just insulted him. “You used to visit me religiously,” he says, his voice thick and carved from centuries-old stone. “Then you vanished for a week as if the sea swallowed you.”

Unfolding his arms, the man—whom you’ve accepted is Stayrus—steps forward, the jewels lining his cloak clinking with each movement.  He doesn’t release you from the pull of his gaze, halfway cautious like he’s approaching a wounded, cornered beast. 

“Your offerings stopped. The temple grew quiet. Your absence was louder than the tide.”

Your neck strains as you behold him. He’s close, exuding the heat of the sun and smelling of cloves and incense and freshly-spawned moss. You can do nothing but swallow, as if the god has compelled you to remain anchored to this spot.

“Mortals do not simply disappear from a god who shelters them. Especially not the only one who still speaks to him.”

His pause is brittle. He looks to the side, reminding you of a haughty child. Your chest swells, your lips threatening to spread into a smile. You should be terrified. On your knees, begging for forgiveness. For your life. Perhaps halfway across the island, screaming bloody murder, thinking you’ve gone insane. 

Instead, you brim with a warm sensation. Pride? Excitement? And—

Did…did he miss you?

As if sensing your thoughts, parsing through the layers of your silence, the deity continues, his voice steeped with thoughtfulness. “I had grown accustomed to you, mortal. While you were away, these grounds felt hollow.”

Almost as if he’d felt abandoned again, you finish internally.

You flinch when his hand lifts, tanned and uncharacteristically weathered for a god, expecting him to strike you for your insolence. For a crime you were unaware you had committed. Closing your eyes, you brace for divine punishment. 

But it doesn’t come as you expect. Instead, you release an indignant sound when Stayrus, the immortal god of unfathomable wealth, harbinger of doom, capable of ripping this land asunder, flicks you between your brows.

Rubbing your head, you hardly have time to reel back before the deity bends, hands on hips, peering at you with eyes spun of playfulness and something undecipherable. His voice descends, soft, forlorn. 

“Do not disappear without warning again, little mortal. I find I do not enjoy it. Not when I’ve grown so fond of your voice and the gifts you bring.”

That nearly knocks you off your feet. He was…fond of you?

He studies you the way the sun surveys the skyline before tucking itself away for the night. Your mouth hinges open, words dying in your throat. Somehow, you envisioned this would be easier, speaking with a god who’s existed as long as the universe. 

What does one honestly say in this situation? Sure? Roger? It’ll never happen again, good sir?

Sensing your plight, Stayrus taps your chin, encouraging you to close your mouth. It’s brief, but it’s enough to ignite fire in your chest. His eyes shine with this youthful amusement that sends your stomach plummeting to your feet.

Since the English language eludes you, you meekly nod, still thinking you’re living through a dream sequence. A terrifyingly realistic one, where you can clearly make out the texture of his skin and feel the heat of his body seep into your bones. 

The deity steps back when he’s satisfied with your answer, yet to release you from his omniscient gaze. You’re unable to help yourself in the impending silence, staring like he’ll disappear if you look away. 

No book, alleged firsthand account, or exaggerated artwork can compare to the real thing. Not even your imagination can measure up to this. 

Stayrus is devastatingly beautiful. So gorgeous, your throat wells, and your eyes burn with the promise of something wet. He’s not attractive in the conventional sense. Not in the way mortals describe each other. He is unimaginably ethereal. Could sink ships with a face like that. Cause the tectonic plates to shift with the size of his body, power brewing beneath the wispy sweep of his cloak. 

His hair is reminiscent of moonlight refracted off calm waves. His eyes shine like dusk piling on the horizon. The aura he exudes is electric yet peaceful, and you feel it brewing in the chasm of your chest, branching through your limbs as if your body is trying to accept and yet reject this intense feeling of divinity. 

Your pulse thrums in your neck. You swallow against the grit of your throat. You find your body responding in ways you wish it wouldn’t.

Sure, you’ve felt this underlying sense of unease each time you entered the temple. Each time you wandered to this part of the island. And it’s still there. But now, you feel something different. Highly inappropriate, starting with that pulsing, molten feeling coagulating in your stomach.

He notices the change, your nervousness, how your thighs press together. Of course he does. He’s a god, having known of humans long before they worshiped him. 

Where you expect his expression to manifest as smugness at your suffering, he appears confused. A faint furrow forms between his brows like you’re ancient glyphs he’s trying to decipher.

“You feel warm, mortal,” states the deity, leaning close, his hand hovering near your cheek. He stops himself, unsure if he should touch. He may be a god, but you’re sure he’d think twice about harming the only human keeping his name alive. “Have you fallen ill as a result of my proximity?”

You want to smack yourself, hiding your mortification behind your hand. He sounds deceptively innocent, like he has no idea what effect he has on you. Surely, it’s been a while since he’s walked amongst mortals, because anyone with basic social skills could tell that you’re fighting for your life.

The beads of his cloak clack together when he lowers his hand. The knot between his brows loosens, his breath dusting your warmed cheeks, as if he’s slowly assembling the pieces of your puzzle.

“Your pulse quickens when you look at me.” Canting his head to one side, his eyes burn through the marrow of your bones, and you find it most difficult to hold his gaze. “Do you fear me, little mortal?” Your stomach sinks beneath the weathered mosaic of stone of his temple as his voice slinks into dangerous territory. “Or is there something else?” 

The crown of your head tingles. Your ears ring with it. If you were a tea kettle, steam would billow from your ears. He’s so wonderfully close. So delightfully hot, and you feel safe. Safe like that night you first sought shelter in his domain. Safe like any other day you’d spent beneath the glittering dust and the overhead canopy. 

You swallow as something cold yet hot blooms behind your ribcage. Wetting your lips with a swipe of your tongue, you hold his stare, willing your mouth to work with you tonight. 

“I’m…not scared.” 

It isn’t a complete lie. You’re not afraid of him. Not like you were initially when he called himself from the shadows. You’re more fearful of what you may say or do next if you’re allowed to stand here longer, basking in his godliness. 

You sense it coming like a wave overtaking a crab and drawing it out to sea. You wince, steeling yourself against the inevitable. And when his question comes, it settles between you, heavy and unmistakable like the ivy-wrapped pillars jutting from the ground.

“Then tell me, mortal. What do you feel?”

No tease lives here. No arrogance of a god bearing himself to a human. He knows you’re out of sorts, wanting to draw the truth from your quivering lips. You make a distant sound in the back of your throat, fighting your legs to keep from shaking.

Words escape you, your silence making room for the ambient tune of the world outside. Stayrus takes your quietude as an invitation, closing the last bit of distance left between a mere mortal and a god.  

Thankfully, your mouth moves this time. But it’s futile, forming around excuses that sound like mindless dribble, so you just end up looking like a fool. But the god doesn’t bask in your mortification. Doesn’t tease you for being at a loss for words. He, too, would likely lose himself if the beaded robe were on your shoulders. 

Your breath stilts itself when his fingers raise again, loosely curled, cautious. You glance between them and their owner. Sift through his expression and body language for any intent to hurt you. When you find nothing but soft curiosity beneath the beaded headband encircling his hair, the tension between your clenched teeth relents.

Nodding, you don’t take your eyes off him after granting him your soundless permission to touch. The world narrows to a single point, the temple blurring into a feverish haze of color and sound. Your heartbeat thrums like a countdown in your ears. His fingers finally graze your skin, cool to the touch like the sand before dawn, and you both stiffen when you flinch. 

After he ensures you’re still alright with this, his exploration warms to the soft glide of your skin. His knuckles ease down the slope of your cheek before dipping below your jaw. Instinctively, you angle your head back, allowing him more passage of your throat despite your nerves flaring like coronal ejections from the sun.

When the deity’s thumb finds the thrum of your pulse in your neck, and he presses down, so achingly gentle, he sucks in a quiet breath. Something in him stirs, startled by the warm flutter of a mortal’s heartbeat. To you, he’s unreal. But to him, perhaps you’re the specter. 

Tilting his head back, his mouth spills slightly open, his eyes glowing like rubies uncovered from the sand. 

“So quick,” he rasps, palm smoothing up the side of your neck, and the rough pad of his thumb passes over your bottom lip, tugging it slightly down. “Your heart runs to meet me as if it knows my touch.”

You shudder when his divine fingers descend lower, soft like a blind man testing the threshold of his other senses. Each graze of his knuckles sends a pulse of electricity through your body. He ends his excursion at the tease of your sternum peaking through your top, and the way you suck in a sharp yet quiet breath, blinking rapidly as if to shake yourself from a trance, makes his lips quirk almost imperceptibly.

“You respond to my fingers as if your body anticipates me.” 

Just when you think he’ll be merciful, the god resumes his languid, innocent torture, his palm fully cupping your cheek. He thumbs the space just shy of your waterline, so tender, it aches. 

You bite your lip against the threat of a keen. A sound dredged from the bowels of your chest. He tracks the movement, subduing a groan of his own.

You hate how your body betrays you. How your knees soften, something warm and moist pooling between the clench of your thighs. Do all gods have this sort of effect on humans, or is he a special case?

When his following words come, you almost anticipate them. A statement born from centuries of solitude, bound in this quiet yet dangerous yearning. 

“You have given me so much, little mortal. Offerings. Warmth. A voice in an empty sanctuary.” His eyes still locked on you, he tracks the languid glide of his knuckles along your face. 

Your lids lower from the tenderness of his exploration. Your breath lodges itself in your throat.

“You have given without asking, wanting, or taking. Maintained my temple out of the purity of your soul.” He pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, baring your wet, darkened eyes to the flickering candlelight and his scrutiny. “That is not the nature of mortals or gods. So, tell me.” 

You feel it in your very being, the threads of your genetic coding, when his voice descends into something darker. Thicker with the heat you’ve heard of in his myths. 

“What do you desire in return?”

Your heart trips over itself. Threatens to break free of your ribs. You blink, the air suddenly too dizzying to bear.

Sensing your confusion, the deity wreathes his palm around the back of your neck, his fingers delicately weaving themselves with the fine hairs at your nape. You don’t resist as he draws your face closer, falling into him like a star wandering too close to an event horizon. So close, you feel the warmth of every word leaving his lips.

“I have listened to you when you thought you spoke to the shadows. I know of your quiet thoughts. Your wishes. Your loneliness.” Scarlet, celestial eyes rake down your body, chilling your spine, numbing your fingers. “Your longing. Anything you ask of me, I will give it to you, mortal. Wealth. Protection. Companionship. Comfort. Or perhaps…there is something deeper that you desire.”

You release a soft breath, legs promising to give out. His eyes smolder at your response as if he’s perused your thoughts. Read the manuscript of your body, all too familiar with the signs of human desire.

“Ask, dear mortal. What do you want from your god?”

The word quivers out of you, high, thin, breathless. “Nothing.” You swallow, trying to steel yourself, but Stayrus’ oppressive presence makes it difficult to think. To stand. To breathe. 

He watches your throat bob as you swallow. Strokes the space behind your ear with his thumb, reveling in how your pulse rockets each time he touches you. Each time he lightly bunches your hair between his fingers, and a gruff little noise worms its way from your throat. 

“Nothing,” the deity parrots, tasting the word in his mouth like aged wine. His gaze flits from your eyes to your parted lips, back up. A maddeningly slow dance that stirs the dragonflies inhabiting your stomach. “You say you want nothing from your god, yet your body speaks to me in a language older than invocation.”

That nearly does you in. Heat branches from the pit of your stomach to your extremities. It clots in the space between your legs, throbbing, coiling, burning. Your carefully-constructed composure frays, burned away by a god already well-versed in the vernacular of yearning.

He feels it, too. The dangerous shift in the air. How the forest has quieted outside, the sea docile as if presenting a stage just for the two of you. He’s a god. Forgotten, but still not immune to the temptations of the flesh like a mortal man.

Tentatively, he raises his unoccupied hand. He observes the flutter of your lashes, quietly asking for permission to touch you more. When you make no move to pull away, his palm brushes your hip. A ghost of touch, a tease, but it still makes you gasp and shudder like you’ve been branded by a hot poker.

Stayrus huffs a soft, pleased sound against your mouth, weaving you deeper into the fibers of his spell. “You came here without expectation. I sense no greed in your soul. You gave freely. You took nothing. You kept me company and tended to my temple while others sought to desecrate it.”

He’s merciful this time, granting you reprieve from the swell of desire, the headiness, his hand clasping around your ribcage if only to feel the violent tremor of your breath. 

“How could I not answer you, dear mortal?”

Your legs turn to jelly, the weight of his divinity too much to shoulder. He catches you with his hands at your waist, scorching through the layers of your clothes and flesh down to bone. His forehead finds solace pressed against yours, mouth spilled open with the effort of breathing as if he shares your desire, too.

“If I asked what you truly felt right now, little mortal, would it still be nothing?” 

It wouldn’t, and he knows it. Your body betrays you, your mind following suit. You’re dizzy and entranced. Burning everywhere he touches. Wherever he breathes. Wherever he looks. 

It terrifies you. You came here months ago, genuinely not seeking anything. But with him presenting himself before you like this—touching you like you’re made of stardust, like you wreathed the sky with the stars by your own hands—you want everything.

But you never imagined this. A god, this god, Stayrus, the inevitable, the bearer of wealth and wrath and humility, wanting you as much as you’ve burned for him. For his presence, feeling it bleed from every crevice and alcove in his temple, even when you thought he’d never manifest. When he’d permanently turned his back on humanity. 

He wants you. To sate you. To repay you for your selflessness in any form. Physical, mental, carnal. You see it in his eyes. Sense it in his skin. In the warmth he bleeds. In the pinch and release of his hands at your waist. In how his mouth hovers, so catastrophically close. So tempted to kiss, to taste what he’s been deprived of in his centuries of solitude.

Would he truly give you that if you asked? Is it profane for a mortal to request something like that from a deity?

Swallowing against the dry grit of your throat, you lick your lips. “I…can’t ask for that,” you say, more to yourself.

Gently, he silences you, a single finger held to the tender swell of your lips. “You feel you cannot ask because mortals have been taught to fear yearning for a god.” 

His words are a statement. A truth that sinks low in your stomach. You recall the things you researched. The advice given to you by the locals. It’s almost common knowledge that humans do not seek the flesh of immortals. 

Drawing you from your mind, Stayrus drags his finger down your lips, crooking it beneath your chin, and tilting your head slightly back so that you can look at him. The pulse between your legs rabbits. It’s embarrassing. It’s obscene, and you’re convinced he can hear it if the corrupted glow of his eyes is any gauge.

“Your desire doesn’t frighten me, dear thing. You should not feel ashamed. I do not find offense in the way your body warms to me.”

His aura sweeps over you like a whirlpool, drawing you inwards. His presence is inevitable. A slow, creeping thing that doesn’t yet take, yet threatens to swallow you whole. His voice, if at all possible, dips lower, melting the air in your lungs. Your resolve. The common sense you try desperately to scrape up.

“You tremble for what you will not name, yet I feel every pulse of it.”

Your words come out croaky, shaky, shy. You hate it. “I shouldn’t…ask a god for something like that.”

A laugh, rolling like the threat of a storm, is his reply. “You misunderstand, little mortal. You are not asking any mere god for repayment for your selflessness. You are asking me. You may ask for anything your heart desires. Anything your body yearns for, and I will not deny you. I will not turn you away.”

You look into his eyes, head tilting, body ready to abandon you. He’s presenting himself on a silver platter. Practically pleading to satiate the unbearable thrum between your legs. But you’ve always been like this, haven’t you? Always felt like you never deserved anything. Like your sole purpose was only to give. Like good things weren’t meant for you.

Stayrus’ fingers lock around your hips. He tugs you close, robbing you of a gasp. Your hips become acquainted with each other, and the power he boasts—the shape of a god—presses against the apex of your thighs. You find yourself clinging to the spider-fine fabric of his cloak. Holding fast to the gold trim for dear life, losing your fight. 

“Is your desire truly so unworthy,” says Stayrus, mouth hovering over yours, teasing, grazing, as he has every intent of kissing you, “that even I should be denied it?”

The truth hits you all at once. A point of clarity that caves in like sand filling a forgotten temple. You want him. Badly. Not his divinity, not his beauty that eclipses the moon and the unearthliness of the forest beyond his temple walls. You’ve desired him since you first set foot in his temple. A feeling you couldn’t name. A pressure you couldn’t give a corporeal shape because you felt it all around you. Gentle warmth. Protective silence. A strange, foreboding sense of being watched. Desired. Pined for without understanding why or how.

You thought it was your mind playing tricks on you. Superstition born of conversing with the locals and faint trails of your own faith, long forgotten. You never knew it was him watching over you this whole time. Keeping vigil whilst you swept the cracking, mosaic floors of his temple. When your hands were stained with paint and dust from scrubbing graffiti from the walls. When you placed offerings at his altar and spoke to the moon-flecked air as if someone were listening. As if someone were as lonely as you were in a place so big.

You never suspected that a god was listening the entire time. That Stayrus was there, listening so carefully that your voice became his tether to the mortal realm. 

And now, he stands here before you. Around you. Inside you, filling your mind with smog and turning your limbs to vines. Divinity given form, beautiful enough to make your chest ache and your breath stutter. 

Your throat tightens. Words come out tight and unsure. You’re overwhelmed by the truth. But you force it out, figuring you’ve gone long enough shoving your own wants and desires into the backseat. 

“I…want you. I’ve wanted you for a long time. Since I came to this place.” You laugh, strained, embarrassed, wet. “Just didn’t know it was you I was feeling.”

His breath catches at your confession. His fingers flex on your waist. You swell with something unknown. A god holding his breath? Because of you? What other surprises could the night possibly have in store?

“You…felt me?” he queries, tone awed, soft, halfway wounded. “Even when I hadn’t yet taken form, you felt me? And you burned for my presence?”

You laugh again. A shaky exhale more than humor. You must sound insane. Desperate. Pitiful. “Yeah. Crazy, right?”

Where you expect him to ridicule you, to push you away and disappear, he surprises you. Then again, he’s been doing that a lot lately, subverting your expectations. A noise leaves him, dredged from the deepest reaches of his existence. He groans. A pained, bitten-off sound that prickles your toes and the crown of your head.

He closes his eyes, seemingly overwhelmed by you. Consumed by you in turn, sucking in a steadying breath. “Little mortal,” he breathes, his lips finding yours in a kiss that isn’t yet that, but it’s still enough to light your body like the candles lining his sanctuary. “You are dangerous. I fear you are not aware of the words you speak. How you manipulate me.”

He shivers against the fingers you have buried in his cloak. “Tell me again that you desire me. The god who awaited you each night. Who looked forward to your prayers whispered in the dark. Tell me that you mean this. That you want this. Want me.”

You do. So sweetly. So shy. So dizzy, slurred with warmth, eyes drooping, mouth trembling with the need to kiss him. “I..want you, Stayrus.” 

The god stiffens as if you’ve burned him. His restraint is a delicate thing. A thread only a swipe away from breaking. “Then ask it,” he whispers, his breath cycling through your lungs as if it’s your own. “Say that you want my lips on yours, and I will show you exactly what a mortal who appeases their god receives.” 

“Please,” you whisper like an incantation, your voice paper-thin. 

Your cheek finds solace against his chest, his godly heart beating wildly beneath. You shyly nuzzle against him, your mouth parting, mind reeling. It’s embarrassing how quickly you succumb to him. How willingly you offer yourself to a god despite how wrong it is. But you don’t care about saving face right now. Not when you can barely stand. 

“Hmm, my sweet mortal.” Stayrus draws you away from his chest, bringing your lidded gaze back to his. He smiles so sweetly, it rivals the blackberry pastries you’d leave for him to eat. “How could I deny you when you plead to me like this?”

Finally, finally, he grants you the mercy of his mouth. Presses his lips to yours like you’re made of moth wings. It’s a slow, deep, consuming kiss that siphons what little air remains in your lungs. You surge onto the tips of your toes to deepen the kiss, pulling at his cloak for leverage. Delightful tingles flow from your lips to your toes, swelling back up like a tidal wave to coagulate in your center.

He fastens you to him, his arm wreathed around your waist, his other hand molded to your cheek to keep you steady. His lips part yours, sucking in your quiet gasp, tasting you with a warm, slick tongue, pushing past the barrier of your teeth.

To your dismay, he breaks the kiss with a sticky click, and it takes all of you not to whine from the loss of his mouth against yours. Chuckling fondly, the deity taps your nose, taking in your dazed eyes, your kiss-bitten lips, the heat taking possession of your face.

“You beg for me so sweetly, sweet thing. Tell me. Do you crave more of your god’s touch?”

You nod drunkenly, not even thinking, your fingers taut in his cloak as you strain on the tips of your toes, desperate to kiss him again. He is massive. He is divine. He is a dream. 

His body hums with power and warmth that threatens to turn your body into an amorphous blob. You don’t care about restraint. About dignity. About pride. If he doesn’t touch you again—if he doesn’t take you—you might die tonight. 

Biting his lip, a gruff sound ascends from the wealth god’s throat. You unknowingly wield great power over an immortal. Your trembling obedience, your softness, your devotion, are enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He holds you by the waist like he intends to push you away, his body rigid with barely-concealed restraint. 

“Please touch me,” you plead, sensing his hesitance, your arms locking around his shoulders. Your body burns. An otherworldly feeling you’ve never experienced. A pleasant one you never want to forget. “Take me,” you beg on a whisper, so wonderfully out of your mind. 

Your voice is his undoing. His Achilles heel. He doesn’t speak as his eyes drill down into your soul. Instead, he moves, kissing you again. A god starved of pleasure for centuries, having the first taste of warmth like a man emerging from a desert’s drought. 

This time, his lips are more possessive. His tongue seeks out the wet glide of yours with a growl, his hands raking across your body to find purchase at the globes of your ass. You’re dizzy, but he doesn’t stop. Not until you're breathless and leaning into him to stay afloat. Not until you’ve all but ripped his cloak from his shoulders, baring a tease of warm ivory skin to your greedy fingers.

His palms slide down, fingers tight around your inner thighs, and he’s lifting you without a second thought. Before you realize what he’s doing. Your legs intuitively wrap around his waist, and he carries you like a sacrifice to be bestowed onto an altar, kissing you like you’re his only source of oxygen.

The temple warps around you, the sounds of the forest, of the sea, or the world, dampened by your desperate panting. His groans, his breath syncing with yours, the beads of his robes clacking together and scraping the floor as he carries you deeper into the temple’s sanctum. 

Stayrus’ mouth finds your throat, open-mouthed kisses that make your head loll back in open invitation, eyes closed, fingers buried in soft waves of moonlit white. He brings you to the altar as if he’s completing a rite. Tender like you’re the goddess he means to worship, and he’s but a mere mortal at your mercy. 

You’re surprised to feel softness in place of cold stone at your back when he lays you down. In your periphery, you catch petals of various colors surrounding you. Flowers he used his powers to bloom, spongy, soft, welcoming. 

He hovers over you like a starving beast savoring a fresh kill, eyes aglow in the moonlight streaming through the canopy above and the ivy-wreathed windows. Hair caught in an errant sea breeze, dusting his shoulders, falling into his face. He is the vision of dreams. Wild and divine and tender all at once. His hands smooth up the sprawl of your body, bunching up your clothes in their soft yet desperate exploration, and you arch into his touch, never getting enough of it.

“You will be worshipped tonight, mortal,” he promises against your lips, bent over you, hips notched between your spread, quivering thighs. “Not only for what you have given me, but for who you have become.”

He kisses you anew, his weight half-atop you, palms moving beneath your clothes as if he’s pushing away the frail barrier between you and divinity. Your legs lock around his hips. You sigh, head thrown back into the flowers whilst he brands your neck with the scrape of his teeth, the apex of his thighs pressing to yours like a lost jigsaw piece.

He disrobes you slowly after marking your shoulder. After he’s tested the weight and fullness of your breasts with his hands. After he’s sucked and licked your nipples to pebbled peaks, running the roughened pads of his thumbs over them in apology. He’s a god, once forgotten, finally found. You can’t blame him for being a little overzealous. You don’t fault him for finding solace in the warmth of your body. Your suppleness. Your scent. 

You hold your breath when his hands leave your breasts, instead trailing down to your hips. He sinks with them, resembling a mortal man falling to his knees in worship. He doesn’t break your gaze, his eyes smoldering like wind blown over greying coals. Your stomach pinches at the prospect of a celestial being kneeling for you. And when his breath dusts the heat of your wet sex between your thighs, you nearly leave your skin.

Drawing your thighs onto his shoulders, your toes curling into the divots of his back, his eyes find yours through the lust-laden haze once more. He doesn’t ask with words. Instead, his gaze carries the question. A request for permission. You don’t deny him, nodding your head once before he nudges your lower lips open with a groan and a devilish mouth.

You tremble in his hands. A shaking fawn lay bare to the world. His tongue strokes you open, his nose finding the distended pearl of your clit. He tastes you. Acquaints himself with the language of your body, the whispered pitch of your voice. You writhe, the hot, wet suction of his mouth too much. Something you don’t think you’re worthy of.

He hums into the milky mess of your cunt, the vibrations curdling in your stomach, and he anchors your hips to the altar, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you down, the other coiled around your thigh to keep you nice and open. Vines spring from the bed of flowers at your back, looping around your wrists, keeping them pinned above your head as he subjects you to the torture of his mouth. 

Pleasure burrows deep in your stomach. You twist your head side to side, tugging against your restraints, trying to stave off that sparkling rush of sensation. It’s too good. He’s too good to you, licking, fluttering, sucking, chasing the undulation of your hips with his tongue, refusing to let you run from a blessing long overdue. 

“Stayrus,” you sob, feeling your body spill towards that slurry edge of no return. “Stayrus, please. I can’t—I can’t—” 

“You can,” he rasps in between his wet worship. “You can, little mortal. My divine thing. My sweet little love. Give in to me. Allow yourself this pleasure just this once.”

He groans something anguished when your thighs lock around his head. Your nails bite unforgivingly into your palms, the vines manacling your wrists, leaving pretty grooves in your skin. He doubles down on the flick of his tongue, putting his previous efforts to shame. You’re close. He can feel it. He craves it. He devours you, trying to sate the divine hunger that’s roiled in his body for centuries. 

You fall apart as if he commanded it, your mouth hinged open in a shuddering gasp. A scream. A shattered cry of his name. Your body convulses, the air punched from your lungs, your pleasure washing over you like waves licking jagged cliffs.

He finally slows when your hips return to the makeshift bed, your mind blank, too full of pleasure too vast for a mortal body to contain. You shiver as he trails kisses from the inner sprawl of your thighs up to your hips, blistering your belly, up to your sternum. 

His lips are wet with the taste of you, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed an ethereal shade of red to match his eyes, which burn brighter than any flame you’ve ever lit in his temple. 

“Exquisite,” praises the deity, pressing his lips to yours with a languid kiss. You moan at the earthy taste of your body enmeshed with the flavor of his mouth. How he kisses so achingly tender, like he’s trying to draw the ichor of your body into his.

“I nearly forgot how fragile you mortals were. And how easily you break.”

Had you not been spent, panting for your life, and your hands bound, you would smack him. You would risk him smiting you if only to wipe that smug look off his face. 

As if remembering himself, the ivy slowly recedes from your wrists, freeing you up to wreath your arms around the deity’s neck. He holds you by the hips, not wanting to crush you while you descend from the heavens, but his desire presses intimidatingly against the cut of your thigh. 

“Will you indulge me a little further, my little mortal?”

Despite the bonelessness of your limbs, a new wave of want pulses in your loins. You want more, even as your body shakes and your chest heaves as if you’ve run miles through a dream. You want him to ruin you. You want him to claim every region of your soul, to make you wholly his. You’ve never felt pleasure so immense. You’ve never craved someone so desperately. 

“Please,” you beseech so sweetly, your voice brittle around the edges.

With a smirk and slight nod, Stayrus rises to full height between your legs. Time is but a construct in this space of heat and wanton desire, your breath corking itself in your throat.

With one concise motion, the wispy cloak spills from his shoulders into a serpentine heap at his feet. The sound it makes when it greets ancient stone embeds itself into your memory. But not like the celestial visage before you, a sight you feel mortal eyes weren’t meant to witness, and you’ll never forget the sight, even in death.

A silken, deep-red cloth stitched with gold patterns and trimmed with the same weave at the hems sits low on his hips. A golden buckle, reminiscent of a crow’s skull, rests at the cloth’s center, seemingly keeping it tied to his waist. Beaded bracelets and a necklace, similar to that sewn into his cloak, dangle off his wrists and neck. 

He is bloody divine. Sculpted. Towering. Every line and muscle of his body forged like a God of War’s statue brought to life. His chest rises slowly, breaths even while yours eludes you. 

He is gorgeous in a way that makes your soul ache, and yet you can’t look elsewhere. Can’t think of your life before beholding his body, your eyes growing warm with a wet film of tears. His expression melds into one of ruefulness, and he bends to kiss your forehead, hands gathering up your face.

“Shh, my little mortal. Why do you weep?”

You can’t speak; his presence is overwhelming. His beauty, too much. The tenderness of his words, his hands, this moment, promising to draw you out to sea. 

He litters your face with kisses, each one growing more delicate than the last, as if he’s trying to coax you down from the pedestal he placed you on. “You want me to ruin you,” he rasps against your quivering lips, swiping molten tears from your cheeks. “I will give you everything you ask of me. But I will not be cruel. I will take you apart, but in a way much older than the stars.”

You shudder at the thought of it, his hair gliding over your skin, his dangling earrings a cool contrast to your overheated body. 

“Let me in,” he breathes, nudging your face with his nose, his hips slotted between yours. “Let me show you what true ascension feels like.”

He reaches between your bodies, his knuckles grazing the sensitive throb of your sex on its way down. The buckle holding the cloth in place clinks, and the sound of fabric meeting stone follows. 

He watches you as you sit up on your elbows, and your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets. You laugh, a quick, unsure, incredulous sound that you can’t help. 

He is massive in the ways that count. Long, thick, beautiful, framed by a dusting of white hair. Intimidatingly large, as if the laws of mortal limitations don’t apply to him. Your thighs shake when he takes hold of himself, dropping the heated girth of his body onto your pubic mound with a dull but noticeable plop. 

Swallowing, you wince, your eyes flit to his. “Will that even—” Your voice cracks around the petered words, and it’s embarrassing. You’ve never…experienced someone so well-endowed, especially not a god. 

His lips quirk when you make a silly gesture with your hands to signal the sheer size of him. His fingers curve around the inner cuts of your knees, dragging you down the bed of flowers with a sticky intake of breath until your pelvis slots to his, and the head of his cock nearly brushes between the undersides of your breasts. 

“It will because your body calls to me. Because I’ve craved it in turn since the first time your hand touched my temple.”

Leaning down, he kisses you again, slower than before, as if savoring the taste of your shock. Despite the nerves flaring around your spine, you return his affection, arms looping around his shoulders, your thighs spreading wider to accommodate the wide span of his hips. 

“I will take you slowly,” he assures, so sweetly, so indulgent, it makes your eyes sting with a new wave of emotion. “You will feel every inch of me inside you, claiming you, ruining you for any man who would dare to touch you after I’ve had my fill. But you will take me, my little mortal.” 

The heat he exudes nearly crushes you. Your nails dig waning moons into his back in anticipation, and you hiss through clenched teeth when his shaft sifts through the sticky, overstimulated mess of your cunt. 

“This,” groans the deity, the head of his cock delightfully nudging your clit, “was always meant to happen. You were crafted by the gods to take me. And I was manifested to adore you until you fall apart.”

When Stayrus draws his hips back a little too far, the head of him prods your slobbering entrance. You share a pleasured exhale at the contact, your bodies shivering, his arms flexing as he holds himself above you against the delicate flowers of the altar, trying not to ruin you all at once.

Finally, he puts you out of your misery. His tip presses against your entrance, impossibly thick, and your body seizes up, not ready to take him. Your nails rake down his forearms, spine arching, head thrown back with your eyes clenched shut. Your body protests, but your soul aches to be filled with him. To drink from him, to only know the shape of him and his words and his divinity.

He senses it, angling himself down with his weight gathered on one elbow above your head, his unoccupied palm finding yours, threading your fingers together in an unspoken promise. “Look at me,” he commands, his tone brittle like the last of his restraint is slipping through his fingers like sand through a sieve. 

You caution your eyes open, and he is so fucking beautiful, it pains you.

“Breathe, my sweet mortal. Let me in slowly. Feel me. Do not tense up.”

It’s easier said than done—he’s not the one taking divine, engorged dick. Still, with a breath out, you will yourself to relax, your fingers tightening against his. Your gazes interlock in a quiet exchange, and when he’s sure you’re ready for him to press further, he does just so.

The stretch is cruel. Maddening. Aching. You feel like you’re being speared. Rearranged to make room for something mortal bodies weren’t meant to take. Tears spill down your face in hot rivulets, plopping unattractively on the pretty blooms beneath you. 

Your god shushes you with chaste kisses to chase the hot leak of your tears. Lips pressed to your temples to soothe you. His mouth descending on yours to swallow those pathetic little sobs you can’t help but let out.

He pulls back his hips, then presses further with each grind forward, and you feel every inch, every vein, every twitch as he wars with himself not to break you in twain with one catastrophic thrust. He’s too big. Too deep. Too hot, and yet you don’t want him to stop. You weren’t exaggerating before when you said you would die without him nestled deep inside you.

“Shh, my sweet thing. You can take me.” His grip on your fingers tightens as if he’s trying to convince himself. “You are already performing so wonderfully. So brave, beautiful, and divine. This bewitching body was made solely to take me, wasn’t it?” His breath shudders against your tear-slicked skin, and he is on the verge of losing himself to the hot suction of your body.

You sniffle as your walls yield to him. Greedily suck him in, fluttering and clenching, rejecting and yet welcoming him all at once. Your thighs quiver. You claw up the expanse of his shoulders in search of anything to hold onto while you bear the brunt of his might. 

He gives you everything that you can take. Patient, sluggish, godly, unreal. Pressed so deep that you feel him in your lower stomach, overwhelmed and somehow begging him to fill you further. 

You whimper when he’s fully seated inside you. Instinctively try to curl into yourself. Lick your wounds clean, skewered, spread open, and bare. He doesn’t let you, his weight against your breasts to moor you down.

“Cry if you must,” soothes the deity. “Scratch me. Bite me. Mark me. But your body knows me. It wants me. It calls to me in the most divine ways.”

He’s thankfully merciful, giving you time to adjust to the sheer depth of him as the tears dry like wells amid a desert from your eyes. After the pain subsides slightly, making way for ricochets of pleasure humming through your body, you release a breath you were unaware of hoarding. 

Stayrus drops a kiss on your lips. The corner of your mouth. Your cheek. Back to your mouth. So soft, you clench around him, and he groans, twitching inside you. “Are you ready to take me, little love? Are you sure this is what your precious heart desires?”

It’s a little too late to turn back now, given how deeply he’s nestled into your soul, how much he’s molded you around the shape of him in just one night. Figurative and literal. 

You manage a broken, “Y-yes,” eyes wet, skin afire.

With your consent, something in him shifts. His eyes glow with it, a feverish flame like you’ve never seen before. He doesn’t take all at once, not like he burns to. Instead, he moves slowly like the lazy drag of a tide, pulling out until only the tip sits between your walls with an obscene hiss, then pistoning back in until you feel him blooming in your heart. The fullness of him has your back bowing off the altar, your toes curling helplessly at the divots of his back just above the swell of his ass.

Your mouth spills open in quiet, fractured whimpers. Your body tries valiantly to adjust, but it can’t. Not when it’s faced with something so unfathomably massive. Still, you take him, pushed further up the flower-dressed platform with each grind of his hips. 

He watches you through hooded eyes, through the soft veil of his hair spilling around you like snow, the shadows cast by the dwindling flame dancing over his body as he splits you in two. 

“You feel like heaven, taking me like this,” pants the god, thoroughly wrecked by you. “So warm. So tight. So good. So deep. You’re trembling, little mortal.” He strokes deeper, phosphenes darting across your field of vision in dazzling white. “Your body is trembling just for me.”

He pushes further still, hitting that spot meshed inside you so perfectly, you cry out. Your thighs lock around his waist, and now, he has both your hands pinned overhead, fingers braided together, your bodies moving as one. 

“My precious little vessel. Feel how deep I am. How much of me you take, even when you thought you couldn’t.”

You open up for him again and again like flower petals unfolding towards the sun. He’s nestled so far into you that you feel him at the center of your very being. His abs knock against your swollen clit just right, and you know that won’t last much longer with him moving against you like this.

That sparkling rush finds you, starting its journey in your belly, unraveling like a spool of thread leaping off a table, throughout the rest of your body. 

When you hiccup around him, panting, trying to make sense of your breath, the god leans down, his smile boyish, skin dewy with sweat when his forehead drops to yours.

“That’s it, mortal. Come for me. Show your god how much he means to you.”

You come with his name on your lips. Shaking, convulsing, gasping. You contract around him in waves that feel endless until you’ve soaked his waist with your essence, the fluid splattering obscenely on the ground, scorching down your thighs. You’re gorgeous and helpless and wonderfully his. He reminds you of that as the flowers grow brighter, fuller, burying his face in the hollow of your neck as you ride that cresting wave of numbing pleasure. 

“Beautiful. Radiant. Perfect. Everything I’ve ever craved. Everything I knew you would be. You were glorious,” he lauds, his thrusts shallow inside you until he spills white hot deep inside, driven to the brink by your perfect body wrapped around his.

He comes almost ceaselessly. Hot, furtive spurts that dribble down your legs, dropping in thick plops on the ground.

He stays buried deep, shaking from the force of his climax. From your body clenching around him, from your nails soothingly raking down the space between his shoulder blades. His breaths are ragged as the pair of you descend, and he draws back slightly, weight on shaky arms, to litter your face with appreciative kisses. 

You don’t know why it happens. Likely a consequence of the sheer amount of pleasure you’ve just endured. But consciousness slips away like a feather drifting from the treetops, left in the wake of a bird taking flight.

Just before you sink into the abyss, you hear something unfurl. Feel cool wind glazing over your dampened skin, before a soft pressure furls around your body, reminiscent of those wings that had shielded you from the storm those months back. 

“I have you, dear mortal,” Stayrus lovingly rumbles into your ear, brushing the shell of it with his lips. “No harm will come to you so long as I have you wrapped in my wings.”

—

When you next awaken, you’re in your home in your bedroom on the other side of the island as morning light seeps in through your curtains. 

You’re pleasantly sore, your skin welting from the thorns pressed into your back from the flowers, your thighs still swollen and slick. You ache in the best ways, the pressure of something thick and molten still carved inside you. 

When you sit up, something wispy slips down your naked body. It’s not the familiar texture of your sheets nor the glide of your clothes.

A sheer, weightless cloak puddles around your waist, the telltale beads and gold adorning it catching in the soft light. 

A whisper tickles your ear, a chuckle that pinches your stomach and threatens to reignite the flame once burning between your thighs like a never-ending ember. 

“Rest, my beloved. You are never far from me. The temple is as much your sanctuary as it is mine.”

The gallery opening is in ten minutes.

You’re standing in Rafayel’s studio, watching him pace back and forth in front of his closet with the kind of intense focus he usually reserves for his paintings. He’s already changed shirts three times, and you’re starting to wonder if you’ll actually make it to the event on time.

“The blue one was fine,” you say from your position by the door, tugging slightly at the neckline of your own dress—a sleek black number that Thomas had insisted was "appropriately formal but practical" for tonight's event. Your feet are already protesting the heels you'd been forced into, sensible as they are by formal standards.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The blue one made me look washed out.” He pulls out another shirt, this one white silk, and holds it up critically. “What about this?”

“Also fine.”

“You’re not even looking.”

“I’m your bodyguard, not your stylist.” But you do look, because he’s giving you that petulant look that means he’s not going to drop this. “It’s fine. They’re all fine. You could wear a paper bag and still be the most overdressed person in the room.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Yes.”

He throws a paint-stained rag at you, which you dodge with ease. “You’re supposed to be supportive. Isn’t that in your job description?”

“My job description is to keep you alive, not to validate your fashion choices.”

“What if my fashion choices are a matter of life and death?”

“Then you have bigger problems than I can solve.”

He’s grinning now, though, that bratty smile that means he’s enjoying arguing with you. It’s become routine—this back and forth, the way you can trade insults without any real heat behind them. Comfortable.

Maybe too comfortable, if you’re honest with yourself.

“Fine. White it is.” He disappears into his bedroom to change, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Dangerous territory.

You’ve been his bodyguard for six months now. Six months of watching him paint, of driving him to galleries and exhibitions, of standing guard while collectors and critics fawn over his work. Six months of learning that beneath the bratty exterior is someone thoughtful and passionate and more-than-occasionally infuriating.

Six months of definitely not developing feelings for your client.

The door opens and Rafayel emerges, adjusting the collar of the white shirt. He’s paired it with black slacks and—

You catch the scent before you consciously register it.

Something oceanic. Salt and sea air and something deeper, more complex. It hits you like a wave, making you blink.

“Have you worn this cologne before?“

Rafayel shrugs, brushing your question off with a grin. “We can worry about it later, cutie. Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting downstairs.”

You lean closer, almost dazed. “Let me smell it again.”

“You’re acting like a cat,” he says with an arch of his brow. “A kitty that found some catnip, to be exact. Shouldn’t my bodyguard be more professional than this?”

“I’m not a cat!” you protest, heat rushing to your face. “Don’t say that. I just…I couldn’t resist.”

It wraps around your senses like smoke, making your thoughts blur at the edges. You’ve never reacted to a fragrance like this before.

“Gods, what is this weird cologne…?” you mutter, trying to pin down the note that’s making your head swim.

He watches you, eyes narrowed with something between amusement and concern. “What, are you getting lightheaded from being this close to me? I know my presence can be overwhelming, but this is a new record.”

“Must be an allergic reaction…” you try, but your voice sounds distant, unconvincing even to yourself. The room tilts slightly, and you reach for his arm to steady yourself. “W-where did you get this cologne?”

“I dunno, I found it in the back of my drawer.” His expression shifts when you sway on your feet. “Why do you look like you’re drunk? Should I be worried that my bodyguard is compromised right now? Because if something happens to me while you're swooning, that's coming out of your paycheck.”

“I’m not drunk,” you snap a little too quickly. “I just…I don’t like the scent.”

The lie hangs between you as you lean closer anyway—breathing him in, dizzy from it. Without thinking, your lips brush against his wrist, and then your teeth graze the inside of it, tasting salt and that maddening fragrance on his skin.

Rafayel goes completely still.

“Hey,” he murmurs, steadying you with his free hand. His grip tightens when you sway toward him. “You don’t look so good. I should have Thomas call the doctor…”

“Don’t.” Your fingers close around both of his wrists, holding him in place like you’re afraid he’ll pull away. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your grip is too tight, trembling, but you can’t let go. His pulse beats under your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying that he’s not nearly as calm as he pretends.

“You’re definitely not,” he agrees, but there’s an edge to his voice now—something careful, almost cautious. His gaze tracks across your face, lingering on your parted lips, your unfocused eyes. “But you’re also definitely not okay.”

You pull his wrist closer to your face again, inhaling deeply. The scent floods your system, making your knees weak. “It’s just the cologne. It’s…doing something to me."

“Clearly.” His thumb traces a slow circle against your knuckles, and you're not sure if he's trying to soothe you or himself. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to hold onto me, cutie, you could've just asked.”

His gaze drops to where you're gripping his arm, then flicks back up with that infuriatingly mischievous glint. “Though I have to say, 'mysterious cologne-induced weakness' is pretty creative. You’re very committed to the bit.”

“Creative?” You manage to shoot him a sharp look despite the way the room keeps tilting. “The only thing I'm committed to right now is not strangling you. Though at this rate, I might make an exception.”

“Oh?” He leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your cheek. “Is that a threat or a promise, Miss Bodyguard?”

His free hand comes up to gently pry your fingers from his sleeve, but he doesn't actually pull away. If anything, he seems to be studying your reaction with far too much interest. “Because I have to say, for someone who's supposedly suffering from a fragrance emergency, you're getting awfully specific about what you want to do with your hands.”

“Stop talking.” Your voice comes out shakier than you'd like. “Just...take it off.”

“Take it off?” He tilts his head, a wicked smile still playing at his lips despite the concern creeping into his eyes. “Interesting. Just a minute ago, you were trying to strangle me, and now you want me naked. This cologne really does work miracles.”

“The shirt, Rafayel.” You manage to grit out, even as your grip on his sleeve tightens. “Or whatever the hells has that cursed scent on it.”

“Alright, alright.” He reaches up, fingers working the buttons of his shirt. “Since you asked so nicely.”

The fabric slides off his shoulders, and you expect relief—distance from the source, a chance to think clearly again.

Instead, it's worse. So much worse.

The scent clings to his skin, concentrated and warm, and without the barrier of clothing between you, it's absolutely devastating. But it's not just that. It's him. Lean muscle and smooth skin and the elegant lines of his collarbones. You've seen him shirtless before—brief glimpses when he's had to work on large canvases in the summer heat—but never like this. Never up close. Never when you're already reeling with want.

Your eyes trace over him helplessly—the defined lines of his chest and stomach, the tiny beauty marks scattered across his pale skin, the sharp V of muscle disappearing into his waistband. He's beautiful. He's always been beautiful, but right now, you can't pretend you don't notice. Can't pretend you haven't been desperately trying not to notice for months.

“Oh,” you breathe, barely a sound.

Your knees buckle slightly, and his hands are immediately at your waist, steadying you.

“Okay, so that backfired spectacularly.” His arms wrap around you properly now, holding you against him even as he maintains just enough distance to look down at your face. “Seriously, what’s wrong? How are you feeling? You look like you're about to pass out.”

You're pressed against his bare chest now, and it's doing absolutely nothing to help your situation. The heat of his skin, the scent, the feeling of his hands on you—

“Hot. Everything’s too hot.” You close your eyes, trying to clear your head, but it only makes the scent stronger, more consuming, making you hyperaware of every point of contact between you. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Hey, look at me.” His voice is gentle but firm, cutting through the haze. You open your eyes to find him watching you with an expression you’ve rarely seen—genuine worry shadowing his usual playfulness. “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out. But first, I need you to let go of me so I can wash this off.”

Your grip tightens reflexively. “No.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he studies you now. “You sure about that, cutie? Because you’re the one who said it’s affecting you.”

“I don’t care.” The words spill out before you can stop them. “I don’t want you to smell like anything else.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then, slowly, he pries your fingers loose from his wrists and takes a careful step back.

You actually whimper at the loss.

“Yeah, no,” he says, but his voice wavers slightly. “We’re definitely calling the doctor. And I’m washing this off. Right now.”

“Rafayel—”

“Don’t ‘Rafayel’ me.” He’s already pulling out his phone, keeping you at arm’s length with his other hand when you try to follow. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m thinking perfectly straight,” you argue, but the wobble in your voice betrays you.

“Sure you are.” He’s typing rapidly now, presumably messaging Thomas. “That’s why you look like you’re about to pounce on me. Very unprofessional behavior, truthfully. I should report this to HR.”

“You don't have HR.”

“Then I should get HR just so I can report you to them.” He's still keeping distance between you, phone held up like a shield. “This is definitely going in your performance review. 'Bodyguard attempted to compromise client while under the influence of mysterious cologne.' Zero stars, would not recommend.”

You roll your eyes—even now, even like this, he can't help being a nuisance. “Are you seriously cracking jokes right now?"

“I cope with stress through humor,” he says, still typing. “And you trying to climb me like a tree right now is quite stressful.”

You open your mouth to deny it, but he's not wrong. Every instinct is screaming at you to close the distance between you again, to press yourself against him and never let go.

This isn't normal. This isn't you.

The realization cuts through some of the fog, and with it comes a wave of exhaustion. Your legs feel shaky, unsteady in the ridiculous heels you've been wearing all night.

“Okay, that's it. Couch. Now.” He pockets his phone and crosses to you, hand finding your elbow to guide you to the couch. “Come on, work with me here.”

Once you're seated, he kneels in front of you without hesitation, reaching for your ankle. “Let's get these death traps off.”

His fingers are gentle as they work the straps of your heels, and you should feel relief—but all you can focus on is his hands on your body, the careful way he's touching you, how close his lips are to your skin.

“Rafayel,” you breathe, and his hands still for just a moment before continuing.

“Almost done.” He slides the first heel off, then starts on the second, his thumb pressing into your arch in a way that would normally feel soothing but right now just makes you ache more. “I hate these things. You always do this thing where you rock back on your heels when they start hurting. Drives me crazy.”

The second shoe drops to the floor with a soft thud. He doesn't let go immediately, hand still cradling your foot, thumb rubbing small circles like he's trying to ease the tension. It's so tender, so careful, and something about it cracks through your defenses.

“Something's wrong,” you whisper, panic edging into your voice.

“I know, baby. I know.”

The endearment stops you both cold.

His hand freezes on your foot, and for a second, neither of you breathes. You see it register in his eyes—what he just said, how naturally it came out—and something raw flashes across his face before he pushes it away. He clears his throat, carefully setting your foot down and standing up.

“Just…hold on. We'll figure this out.” He's already backing toward his bedroom, putting distance between you again. “I'm going to—shower. Wash this off properly. Thomas said the doctor will be here in twenty minutes, so just—stay there. Don't move. I'll be right back.”

He disappears into his bedroom, and the second he's out of sight, the ache intensifies. It’s in your chest, between your thighs, pulsing through every cell in your body. You curl into yourself on the couch, hugging your knees, trying to breathe through it. The vulnerability of that moment—of him kneeling in front of you, touching you so gently, that slip of “baby”—makes everything worse somehow. Makes you want things you shouldn't want.

Nothing helps. Nothing makes this better.

He's only gone for a minute or two, but it feels like hours. Days. Years. You press a hand to your sternum, trying to steady your breathing, but all you can think about is that scent, his scent, and how desperately you need—

The door opens. Rafayel emerges in nothing but tight, black boxer briefs, a towel slung around his neck as he rubs at his damp hair with one end. Water droplets trace paths down his chest and shoulders, dangerous paths you can’t help but follow with your eyes and want so badly to follow with your tongue.

“Scrubbed myself raw trying to get it off.” He moves toward his dresser to grab a clean shirt, seemingly oblivious to the fact that his boxers cling to his damp skin in a way that does little to conceal the shape of his half-hardened cock.

“Better?” He stops cold when he catches the way you're staring—eyes glazed, lips parted, no longer even trying to hide it. “Or…worse?”

The scent still clings to him—in his hair, on his skin. Woven into his being somehow, like it’s seeped into his very pores. Between the sight of him nearly nude and the undiluted scent, you can't separate which is affecting you more. You can't think past the way your fingers itch to touch him, to explore every muscled inch of him, to have him fill this aching emptiness that's consuming you from the inside out.

You shake your head silently, and his face falls.

“Worse.”

“Shit.” He backs up immediately, hand shooting out to keep space between you. “Okay, worse is—that's not good. Stay there.”

But you can't. Your feet carry you forward another step, then another, drawn to him like a magnet. “Rafayel—”

“I mean it.” He backs up until he hits the dresser. A thought seems to cross his face, something almost hopeful. “Fine. If washing didn't work, maybe I can just—”

He holds up his hand, and a small, pink-red flame flickers to life at his fingertip.

“Maybe I can burn off whatever’s left of the cologne,” he says, bringing the flame closer to his other arm. “If I can just—”

You move before you can think.

Your hand catches his wrist, pulling it away from his neck. And then, operating purely on instinct and desperate need, you bring his finger to your lips. You close your mouth around it, extinguishing the flame with your tongue.

Rafayel goes completely still.

The flame dies with a soft hiss, and suddenly you're aware of the taste of his skin on your tongue—salt and something sweeter, something that makes your eyes flutter closed. You can't help it; your tongue swirls around his finger, a soft whimper escaping your throat as you suck gently. You feel his whole body tense, his free hand gripping the edge of the dresser behind him hard enough that his knuckles go white.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His finger is still in your mouth, and you can feel his pulse racing—or is that yours?—as another needy sound slips from you. Then, slowly, reluctantly, you release him, your lips dragging wet against his skin as you pull back.

“What—” His voice comes out hoarse, wrecked. “What the hells do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping you,” you whisper. “Don’t get rid of it.”

His eyes are dark, darker than you’ve ever seen them. “You just—with your mouth—”

“I know what I did.” You meet his gaze steadily, even as your heart pounds against your ribs. “Is there a problem?”

“Problem?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it—just shock and arousal. His grip on the dresser tightens further. “You just did possibly the most erotic thing I've ever experienced while clearly not in your right mind, and you're asking if there's a problem? Yeah, I'd say there are several problems.”

Despite his words, he hasn't moved away. If anything, his eyes keep dropping to your lips before snapping back up.

“The biggest one being,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “that in about twelve hours you're going to come to your senses, remember you think I'm an 'insufferable brat,' and blame me for not locking myself in the closet or something.”

“You are an insufferable brat.” The words come out breathless, but you're smiling despite everything. Your hands slide up his bare chest, feeling his heart racing beneath your palms. “That hasn't changed.”

“Oh, well, that's reassuring,” he mutters, eyes are locked on yours like he’s searching for something.

“You were trying to fix it. And I don’t want you to fix it.”

“Cutie—” The endearment comes out strangled. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“I’m thinking very clearly. I want this. I want you.” You lean in closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. “So stop trying to make it go away.”

“That’s not you talking.” He exhales hard through his nose, both hands clinging to the dresser behind him now. “It’s the damn cologne. You’re not yourself.”

Your breath is hot on his neck when you whisper, “Then make me feel like myself again.”

The words hang between you, and you both know what you're really asking. For him to give you what your body is screaming for, to work this fever out of your system, to take you until the ache finally subsides. His pupils dilate, understanding flickering across his face—want and fear and something darker. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard.

“Okay, nope. We need—” He suddenly grips your shoulders and steers you backward toward the couch with determined steps. “You're going to sit right here, and I'm going to stand all the way over there, and we're going to have a rational conversation about why this is a terrible idea.”

He practically deposits you onto the cushions, then immediately retreats several steps, running both hands through his still-damp hair.

You try. You really, really try.

But then he moves—the slightest shift of his stance—and you catch a surge of that scent again. Fainter, but still there. Still calling to you like an implacable siren.

You’re on your feet before you realize you’ve moved.

“Nope.” Rafayel holds up both hands, backing away. “Absolutely not. Sit back down.”

“I can’t.” Your voice sounds desperate even to your own ears. You take another step forward, and he retreats, maintaining distance. “Please, Raf, I just need—”

“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, and now he does look at you, and there’s something fierce in his demeanor. “And I’m trying really damn hard not to give it to you.”

“Why not?” The question comes out pathetic, almost childish. You move closer and he sidesteps, circling away.

“Because—” He stops, jaw working like he’s trying to find the right words, still backing up as you advance. “You’ll wake up tomorrow, and you’ll be yourself again, and you’ll realize what happened, and you’ll hate me. And I—” He cuts himself off, looking away. “I won’t have that.”

Something about the vulnerability in his voice cuts through the fog slightly. “I could never hate you.”

“I'm flattered, really, but this is the worst possible time for you to develop feelings for me.” He gestures at your flushed face, your obvious distress, using the moment to put more space between you. “You also said you wanted to strangle me five minutes ago, so forgive me for not taking your current emotional declarations at face value.”

“Who said anything about feelings?” you snap, frustration bleeding through. “I just need—”

“Oh, so you just want to use me for my body?” His eyebrow arches, and despite everything, there's a hint of his usual teasing. “Wow. Objectified by my own bodyguard. Even worse, honestly. My fragile artist's heart can't take being reduced to a piece of meat.”

“You're ridiculous.” You mirror his movements, stalking around the opposite side of the table.

“And you're relentless.” He dodges left when you lunge right, keeping the furniture between you. “This is embarrassing for you, by the way. What happened to those legendary Hunter reflexes, huh? I'm outmaneuvering my own bodyguard while half-naked. That's got to sting.”

“Stop running away from me!” You're both circling the coffee table now like it's some kind of blockade in your game of cat-and-mouse.

“Stop chasing me like I'm prey!” But there's a breathless laugh in his voice now. “This is absurd. We're adults. We should be able to have a mature conversation without—”

You feint left, and when he moves to block, you go right, finally closing the distance and catching him before he can retreat again. Your hands find his bare waist, and he makes a sound that's half surprise, half resignation.

“Got you,” you breathe.

“Yeah.” His hands come up to grip your wrists—not pushing you away, just holding on. “You got me.”

You're both still for a minute, breathing hard, faces inches apart, and the heat of his skin burns under your palms. In the sudden silence, you can hear it—muffled music and laughter drifting up from downstairs. The party. His gallery opening.

“I'm sorry,” you whisper, the realization gnawing at the fog in your mind. “Your party. You're missing your party because of me.”

“Oh yeah, standing in my studio with a beautiful woman who can't keep her hands off me.” His lips quirk into that infuriating smirk, even as his grip on your wrists tightens. “Truly a terrible way to spend an evening. I'm devastated. Can't you tell?”

You can tell he's not devastated. You can tell by the way his body is responding to your proximity, the evidence of his interest becoming increasingly obvious in those thin boxers.

“Rafayel—”

“There's nowhere else I'd rather be, cutie.” The teasing edge softens just slightly, something genuine underneath. “Trust me on that.”

He glances toward where his phone sits on the coffee table. “The doctor will be here in fifteen minutes. Think you can keep your hands to yourself for that long?” he adds, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“No,” you answer honestly.

“Yeah.” He sighs, but there's something almost fond in it. “I didn't think so.”

For a long moment, he just looks at you, really looks at you, like he's trying to memorize this moment despite how much he wishes it wasn't happening like this. Then his free hand comes up, fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

“You're testing my self-control in ways that should be illegal. Pretty sure they are, actually." His hand in your hair guides your head back, forcing you to look up at him. Gods, he's tall. It makes you feel small in a way that does things to you it probably shouldn't. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to be the responsible one when you're looking at me like that?”

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to brush your lips against the inside of his wrist. “I don’t want to be the only one affected.”

“You think you’re the only one?” His laugh is strained, and his thumb traces along your scalp in a way that makes you shiver. His eyes glint with something sinful now, more knowing. “You know, Lemurians have a keen sense of smell.”

Your breath catches. “What are you getting at?”

“Your scent.” His voice drops lower, more intimate, and his fingers tighten slightly in your hair. “It’s changed. Sweeter. Headier.” He takes a slow breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he finds the words. “I can smell your arousal. Have been able to for a while now, actually.”

Heat floods your face, though you're not sure if it's embarrassment or arousal anymore. “That’s not—I’m not—”

“Don’t bother lying to me. I’ve been smelling how much you want me all night now. And it's driving me insane, by the way,” He says it lightly, but there's tension underneath. “Knowing exactly how turned on you are? Being able to smell it getting stronger every time I so much as look at you? It’s absolute torture.”

You whimper, unable to help it, fingers curling tight around his forearm as you lean into his palm. “Then stop fighting it already.”

“I can’t.” But he doesn’t sound as certain anymore. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone almost unconsciously. “Because, unlike you, I don’t have the excuse of mystery cologne messing with my head. This is just me, wanting you so badly I can barely think straight, and trying desperately not to take advantage of the situation.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, frustrated beyond belief.

“No, you don’t.” He tilts his head, studying you with that infuriating artist’s gaze. “Right now, I’d say you want to do the opposite of hating me.”

“Fuck you,” you spit back, but it comes out more urgent than angry.

“That's more like it.” He smirks, but his voice is strained, too.

The ache is getting worse, every second he stays at arm’s length like sandpaper on your nerves. You press a hand to your chest, trying to ease the tight feeling that’s made a home beneath your ribs. “How much longer?”

He checks his phone. “Twelve minutes.”

“That’s only three minutes since you last checked.”

“Time flies when you’re having fun.” His tone is light, but you can see the tension in his shoulders.

The silence stretches between you, charged and heavy. Your eyes drop on their own volition, tracing down his bare chest to where his boxers sit low on his hips, to where his cock sits, fully erect now, tucked under the dark fabric. You press your thighs together involuntarily, a futile attempt to ease the ache.

His whole body goes rigid, nostrils flaring as he scents the change. His eyes are still averted as he adjusts himself, as if it could erase the image you’ve already burned into your mind. “Even that? Even just looking at me makes it worse?”

You can't help it, can't control your body's response to his. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He drags a hand down his face. “Okay. Come here.” He moves to the couch, sitting down and pulling you with him. But instead of beside him, he turns you around, settling you in his lap with your back against his chest. His arms come around your waist, holding you in place. “Just…stay like this. Hold on with me, okay? I'm not going anywhere.”

It's not enough. It's nowhere near enough.

But it's something.

“This is better,” he's saying, but he sounds like he's trying to convince himself. “More controlled. Less tempting.”

It's not better. Not even a little bit.

Because now you're surrounded by him. His bare chest is warm against your back, heavy arms wrapped around your waist, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and every time he breathes, you feel it against your neck. You shift slightly, trying to get comfortable, and your hips roll against his lap.

Rafayel goes completely still before letting out a strained laugh. “Please don't do that.”

“Do what?” But you can feel exactly what you did—can feel his body's reaction pressing hard against your center.

“That.” His grip on your waist tightens, holding you in firmly in place. “Moving. Just…try to stay still.”

“Rafayel.” Your head falls back against his shoulder. “This isn't helping.”

“It's helping me.” His lips are so close to your ear. “If I can't see your face, I can't see the way you're looking at me.”

“Coward,” you sigh out. You shift your hips slightly and feel the hiss of air he sucks in through his teeth. “Too bad I can feel exactly how much this is affecting you, too.”

You arch into him again—accidentally or on purpose, you're not sure anymore—and feel his cock twitch against the curve of your ass. His breathing halts.

“Stop squirming,” he grits out.

“I can't help it.”

“Yes, you can. You're a trained Hunter. You have excellent bodily control.” But his voice is getting rougher. “Use it.”

At ten minutes, your hands start wandering.

You don't mean for them to. But sitting on him like this, feeling the warmth of him, breathing in that maddening scent with every inhale—your fingers slip along his forearms, then drift to his thighs, seeking more contact.

Rafayel goes rigid.

“Don't,” he warns, voice practically a groan.

“I'm not doing anything,” you lie, even as your palms slide up his thighs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch.

“That's—that's definitely something.” His breathing has gone shallow. “That's absolutely something.”

“I'm just holding you.” Your hands move higher, and he shudders. “You told me to hold you.”

“I told you to stay still. I didn't say you could—” He breaks off with a sharp inhale when your fingers trace along the inside of his thigh. “You're doing this on purpose, you maddening woman.”

“Maybe.” You're past caring about dignity, circling your hips shamelessly against his lap. The dress feels suffocating, too tight, too much barrier between you and what you need. "Maybe I want you to break."

“Well, it's working.” His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back so he can look at you. His sunset eyes have shifted to dusk, pupils blown dark and wide. “You're playing dirty, Miss Bodyguard.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Yeah?” His thumb traces your jaw, and the touch sends electricity racing down your spine. “And who would that be?”

“You.” You turn your head slightly, teeth grazing the inside of his wrist. “You're the worst influence I've ever had.”

“Probably true.” He's staring at your mouth like it's taking all his concentration not to close the distance. “But I'm trying to be a good influence right now, and you're making it really fucking hard.”

“Good.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it grips your waist, guiding it higher along your ribs. His fingers spread wider, following your lead, moving up, up, up—palm sliding over the silk until his fingers rest against the underside of your breast, so close to where you're aching for his touch.

He stops himself there, hand freezing in place. His fingers flex once, like he's fighting the urge to move higher, tightening the grip in your hair with a quiet curse.

“Seven minutes,” he says, voice hoarse, like he's counting down to salvation or damnation. “We can last seven minutes.”

At five minutes, you're both on the floor.

You're not sure how you got here. One moment you were in his lap on the couch, the next you'd somehow tumbled to the carpet, and now you're straddling him while he's flat on his back, staring up at you with those dark, conflicted eyes. Your dress has ridden up dangerously high, the black silk bunched around your hips.

Your hands slide up his arms, and before you can think better of it, you're pinning his wrists above his head against the floor. His breath catches audibly, pupils dilating, lips parting, and his whole body goes taut beneath you in a way that has nothing to do with resistance.

“Oh,” you breathe, watching his reaction. A slow smile curves your lips. “You like this, don't you?”

“I like you not having free range to torture me further,” he shoots back, but his voice is too rough, too breathless to sell the lie. “It's a strategic defensive position.”

“Uh-huh.” You press his wrists harder into the floor and watch his eyes darken further, dragging down to where your dress has shifted. “Very defensive.”

You tilt your hips experimentally, watching his eyes squeeze closed with the motion. You’re impossibly close like this, the lace of your thong doing little to hide how soaked your cunt is where it finds friction against the firm length of his clothed cock. His wrists flex in your hold, but he doesn't try to break free.

“I don't care about the minutes anymore,” you say, holding him there.

“I know.” His voice comes out pained, and you feel his heartbeat racing beneath your grip. “But I have to care. One of us has to.”

“Why does it have to be you?”

“Because—” He stops, and you see him swallow hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath you. “Because I need to know this is real. I need you to want me—actually want me. Not because you're drugged up on some scent. And I won't—I can't take advantage of you like this.”

“You want proof this is real?” The words tumble out in a shaky voice. “I tried to quit. Two months ago, after you fell asleep on my shoulder in the car. Remember that? You grabbed my hand at that exhibition without thinking, and I never wanted to let go. Never. Thomas had to talk me out of it because I couldn't stand being near you, wanting you, not being able to have you…”

“Woah, woah, woah. You—what?” He shakes his head, staring up at you like he’s never seen you before. “No. You're just saying that because—”

“Call him.” You're already releasing his wrists, lunging for where his phone landed on the couch, desperate to prove it, to make him believe you so he'll finally stop holding back. “Call Thomas right now. Put it on speaker. He'll tell you—”

“No, wait—hey—” Rafayel catches you around the waist, hauling you back before you can reach it. “Stop—I believe you—”

“You don't!” You struggle against his hold, still reaching. “You think it's the cologne talking. Call him. Let me prove it—”

“I believe you!" His arms tighten around you. "I believe you, okay?”

You stop struggling, breathing hard. “You believe me?”

“Yes, baby.” He turns your chin to face him, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His eyes are wide, almost dazed. “You almost quit. You wanted me that badly. I've been trying so hard not to want you and you've been—” His voice breaks with a shaky laugh. “Fuck. We could have had this. We could have had months of this.”

“Then don’t waste any more time,” you whisper, pressing his shoulders back down to the floor. The torture of his cock throbbing achingly against your clit through your underwear makes you want to scream. “I can’t do this, Rafayel.”

“Cutie—” His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your cheek. “If this is what you need—fine. Use me. But I'm not taking this from you.”

You catch his wrists and push them back down, pinning them beside his head with renewed purpose. “You're not taking anything. I'm giving it to you.”

“That's—that’s not how it works.” His jaw flexes, and when you grind down again, his hips jerk upwards unintentionally. “When this high is gone, I need you to know I didn't—”

But you can feel how hard he is beneath you, how his body betrays every word of restraint. You move against him again, sharp and needy, and his strangled growl shatters in the air between you.

“Shit—don't do that,” he chokes out. But he lets you hold him down like he needs it, too.

“Rafayel, please, just…just a little more…”

He drags in a broken breath. “A little more will never be enough. You'll ask again, and I…I'll give in.”

“Would that be so bad?” you whisper, reckless and desperate, pressing his wrists harder into the floor.

“Gods, help me.” His hips surge up to meet yours, and you feel him shudder beneath you. One of his hands breaks free from your grip—not to push you away, but to slide to your thigh, fingers slipping beneath the bunched fabric of your dress. “This is all I can give you. No more.”

The friction is brutal, perfect, everything you need, yet still not enough. You gasp, your remaining grip on his other hand tightening as you grind with desperate urgency, your thighs shaking.

“Fuck. You’re…so needy,” he groans, the hand on your leg now guiding you in a rhythm that's going to destroy you both. “This is insane. We’re insane.”

“Don’t care,” you breathe, releasing his other wrist to brace against his chest, both his hands now free to grip your hips, to press your bodies impossibly closer. You're wholly lost in it, in him, in the friction and heat and that maddening scent. “Don’t care, don’t care, don’t care—”

“Two minutes,” he says, voice strained.

You don't stop moving. If anything, you grind down harder.

“Two minutes,” he repeats, more to himself than to you.

“You already said that.”

“I'm reminding myself.” His fingers dig into the crease of your thigh hard enough to leave marks, like the pressure might help him hold himself together. “Reminding myself that help is coming in two godsdamned minutes and I just need to—fuck—”

You shift your angle, and you both let out a small, anguished noise. “What if I don’t want to be okay? What if I want to stay like this?”

“You don’t.” But he sounds uncertain now. “You can’t possibly want to feel like this. Like you’re going to crawl out of your skin if you can’t—”

His phone rings.

You both freeze.

Rafayel sits up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you in his lap as he reaches for the phone on the coffee table beside you. His other hand stays at your thigh, like he can't bear to let go completely.

“That's Thomas,” he says quietly, staring at the screen. “Probably calling to say the doctor's here.”

Your heart sinks. Reality crashes back in—the gallery opening you both abandoned, the concerned manager trying to help, the professional boundaries you've now obliterated.

The phone continues to ring. Once. Twice. Three times.

Then Rafayel does something you don't expect.

He just...watches it ring.

When the ringing stops, there's a moment of silence where you both seem to hold your breath. Then it starts again immediately—Thomas calling back, persistent as ever.

“You should—” you start, but you're not even sure what you're trying to say. Answer it? Don't answer it? Throw the phone out the window and fuck me senseless into your mattress until the sun burns out?

“Shh.” His hand slides from your thigh to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His eyes are searching yours—dark and conflicted and desperate. “Just...give me a second.”

“A second for what?”

“To decide if I'm going to be smart…or selfish.” The phone is still ringing in his hand. He looks at it, then back at you—at your flushed face, your parted lips, the way you're still trembling in his arms. You watch something change in his expression.

“I've spent six months being smart about you. Six months not saying anything. Not touching you the way I wanted to. Being professional.” He laughs, but there's no humor in it. “And where did that get me? Twenty minutes of torture watching you need me and not being able to do anything about it.”

“Rafayel—”

He declines the call.

Your breath catches.

Then he powers the phone off completely and tosses it onto the couch behind him like it personally offended him.

“What are you doing?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving.

“Something stupid.” He turns back to you, and there's conflict written all over his face. “Something I might regret.”

“The doctor—”

“I know.” His voice is rough, edged with desperation. “I know this is wrong. I know I should wait until tomorrow when you're clearheaded and can make this choice without cologne clouding your judgment." His forehead drops to yours. “I know all of that.”

“Rafayel—”

“Tell me no. Please—tell me no.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. “Tell me to turn the phone back on and let the doctor in. Tell me to be responsible. Tell me right now. Because I’ve been fighting every impulse to be selfish with you from the moment you walked out in that dress, and I don’t think I want to win anymore.”

You should tell him no. You should be the rational one now, since he’s clearly given up on it.

But instead, you whisper: “I don’t want you to be responsible.”

Something in him finally breaks open.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is desperate, consuming—nothing like the restraint he's shown all night. His hand tightens in your hair, angling your head as he takes and takes and takes. His tongue strokes yours like he's been starving for it, like all those minutes of holding back have condensed into this single moment. You gasp and he uses it, deepening the kiss until you forget how to think, forget how to breathe, forget everything except the taste of him and the way his body presses into yours like he's trying to fuse you together.

His arm around your waist crushes you closer to keep you steady—or maybe to make sure you can't escape. The scent of him is everywhere now, overwhelming, but it's different when he's kissing you. Less maddening, more grounding. Like this is what your body has been screaming for all along, like you had come home to something you didn't know you'd lost.

“Fuck,” he gasps against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, eyes still closed. “Fuck, I tried. I really tried.”

“I know.” Your hands find his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones. “I know.”

“You're still going to hate me tomorrow.” But he's already kissing you again, softer this time, like he’s committing the shape of your mouth to memory.

“I won't.” You kiss him back with everything you have. “I promise I won't.”

His hands slide down your sides to your back, fingers finding the zipper of your dress.

“I need you to understand something.”

He pauses, toying with the zipper tab between his fingers. “This isn't just me giving in to what you need right now. This is me being greedy.”

He pulls the zipper down slowly—not hesitating, but savoring. “This is me taking what I've wanted for months.”

The dress loosens and falls, pooling at your feet. His hands find your newly bare spine immediately, splaying wide across your skin like he needs to touch as much of you as possible.

“So tomorrow, when you remember this—I need you to know it wasn't just about helping you through the fragrance. It was about me wanting you. All of you.”

“I know,” you whisper, chest tight at the raw honesty in his voice. “I want this too. I want you.”

“Good.” His smile is soft, almost shy, before it turns wicked. “Because I'm not letting you go after this.”

Then, in one smooth movement that makes you yelp, he stands and hauls you over his shoulder like you’re weightless.

“Rafayel!” You're laughing despite yourself, the sudden shift so perfectly him. “What are you—”

He swats your ass playfully as he heads toward his bedroom. “Being romantic. Can't you tell?”

You smack his ass right back, harder. “This is your idea of romance?”

“Better than your idea, which is apparently assault and battery.” But his teasing trails off as he slides you down his body, and suddenly neither of you is laughing anymore.

Your feet touch the ground just as the back of your knees hit the bed, and then he's easing you down onto the mattress, crowding you with his body. His arms cage you in on either side, and there's no teasing in his expression anymore.

“Stop staring,” you whisper, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of his gaze.

“Absolutely not.” His hands span your waist, tracing patterns on your bare skin. “Do you know how many sketches I have of you hidden away? Your profile when you're standing guard. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. That little furrow you get between your brows when I'm being difficult.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it now until he soothes the space between your brows with his thumb. “That’s the one.”

His other hand traces your ribs so tenderly. “But none of them compare to this. To you, here with me, real and perfect and mine.”

Your breath halts, something in your chest cracking open at the confession, the claim. “Show me,” you whisper. “Tomorrow. Show me all of them.”

“Tomorrow,” he agrees, voice rough. He leans in, brushing his lips across your jaw. “I'll show you everything.”

You reach for the waistband of his boxers. “But right now, I need you to stop talking and take these off. Immediately.”

“So demanding.” But he's already moving, hooking his thumbs in the band and pushing them down. “I love it.”

Your eyes follow the movement, watching as he kicks them away, and—

“Wow.”

It’s almost annoying how perfect he is. Of course even his cock is beautiful, thick and flushed and beaded with precum. For a second, you understand the artist’s mind—you want to draw each vein by hand, capture the slight curve of it in permanent ink, and frame it in gold.

“Wow? I pour my heart out, and that's what you give me? You should know that I'm sensitive—”

You ignore him, reaching eagerly for his shaft, but he catches your wrist before you can touch. “Uh-uh. Not yet. Fair's fair, cutie.” His fingers twist around the black lace of your underwear. “These too.”

“Still staring,” you point out as you lift your hips to help him, but there's no real complaint in your voice.

“Can't help it.” His hands hover between your thighs for a moment, like he's not sure he's allowed to touch. “You're—”

“Rafayel.” You grab his wrist and guide his hand to where you need him most. “Touch me. Please.”

That breaks whatever hesitation he had left.

“I can't believe—” His two fingers slide effortlessly across your soaked slit, teasing, testing, worshiping. He buries his face in your neck, and you feel more than hear the way his breath catches, how he's fighting back a moan. “Perfect. So fucking perfect.”

“More. Touch me more,” you murmur, hips rolling into his touch. “Don’t you dare stop.”

“Wasn't planning on it.” His thumb finds your clit and circles slowly, watching your face intently. “Tell me what you like. I want to know everything.”

You're about to respond when he slides a finger inside you, and your words dissolve into a moan.

“That,” he murmurs, doing it again. “Definitely doing more of that.”

“Smug—” You try to glare at him, but can't quite manage it. “You're being smug.”

“I'm being attentive.” He adds another finger, and you arch into his hand. “There's a difference.”

The cologne's effects have you hypersensitive—every touch feels like lightning, every stroke of his fingers sending fireworks down your spine. You're dimly aware that you're making desperate sounds, grinding against his hand shamelessly, but you can't bring yourself to care. All you can focus on is his scent surrounding you, his fingers inside you, the heat of his gaze as he watches you come undone.

“Rafayel—” His name comes out broken, uninhibited, and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh at the sound.

“Oh, I like that.” His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your entire body tense. “Say it again.”

“Rafayel, please, I need—ah—”

“Need what? Use your words, Miss Bodyguard.” His thumb continues circling your clit as his two fingers fuck into you, and you nearly sob. “Come on, you're usually so good at bossing me around.”

Despite the haze of pleasure, you hook your leg around his and flip your positions, Rafayel now on his back underneath you. You straddle his hips, one hand coming up to wrap lightly around his throat.

“You're going to regret saying that,” you murmur, thumb stroking over his pulse point as you settle your weight on him.

“Oh, fuck—”

“That's what I thought.” You apply the barest pressure and watch his breath stutter.

“Actually, I am very smug about this. This is extremely hot. You're extremely hot. I'm having a great time—”

Before you can think twice, you reach for where your panties lie beside you, soaked through and forgotten on the sheets. Gathering the black lace in your palm, you push it into Rafayel’s mouth.

“You really don't know when to shut up, do you?”

He makes a pleading sound, hips bucking up in search of yours, and you can feel how desperately hard he is beneath you.

“That's better.” You lean close, lips brushing his ear. You press the lace against his tongue with two fingers. He closes his lips around them, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks greedily at the pleasure-slicked fabric. “So much better when you're quiet.”

His response is muffled, but you can feel him smile around your fingers. The smile just as quickly morphs into a groan when you take his cock in your hand, the length practically dripping with your combined need.

“Mmm,” you hum, stroking slowly from base to tip, savoring the pleading noises that escape his throat, the way his body trembles under your touch. “You’re being so good for me, aren't you?”

You align him with your entrance, smirking when he curses as you glide the head of his cock teasingly through your swollen folds.

“Are you going to behave?” You pull the panties out to give him a chance to speak, transfixed by the thin line of saliva that drips down his chin in its wake. “Or do I need to keep you quiet?”

“Behave?” His breath comes rough and uneven as he arches a brow, the playful submission vanishing from his expression entirely. His hands find your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there. “Where’s the fun in that?”

In one brutal thrust, he closes the distance, pushing inside until his hips are flush against yours. You cry out—overwhelmed by the way he fills you so completely, overcome by the look of pure, unfiltered reverence in his eyes. He stares at you like he’s seeing color for the first time, watches you with open-mouthed wonder as you take his cock like it was made just for this moment.

“How?” It comes out almost like a complaint, but the word trembles with awe. “How am I supposed to survive you?”

He stays still like that for a long moment, unmoving, giving you time to adjust to the sheer size of him. Or maybe it’s him who needs a moment, needs to remember how to breathe when you’re looking at him like he’s painted the sky, hung every star, and given the moon its light. Like he’s your entire universe.

But you’ve waited long enough. You brace your hands against his chest and begin to ride him, chasing the friction that’s been building unbearably, clenching tight around his cock like it’s the answer to your every prayer.

“Easy, easy—” His hands lock around your waist, forcing you still. “It’s my fault you’re feeling like this, huh? So let me make you feel better.”

“This isn’t enough,” you try to pull yourself closer, but his grip on you is unrelenting. “You’re being mean.”

“Mean? Cutie, if I were being mean, you’d know it.” That wicked grin flickers back as he fucks up into you in an achingly slow rhythm. “I'm being very, very good to you right now. Can't you tell?”

You try to respond, try to come up with some clever retort, but all that comes out is a broken moan as his cock drags against your inner walls just right.

“No comeback? No smart comment about how unbearable I am?” He does it again and watches you fall apart. “Just those pretty little sounds for me?”

You manage to glare at him, but it's thoroughly undermined when you involuntarily whimper.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” He sounds absolutely delighted with himself. “Look at you, finally speechless. I should make you feel good more often if this is what I get.”

“Rafayel—”

“There we go. That's better.” His hands guide your movements faster, finding an angle that has you trembling. “Just my name. Keep saying my name just like that.”

You can't form words anymore, just his name and pleading sounds as the tension builds higher and higher and higher. The scent is everywhere—wrapping around every limb, clawing its way inside you, lighting every nerve ending on fire, amplifying each touch beyond reason.

“It's—” You can barely get the words out, dizzy from his scent, or from him. You can’t tell the difference anymore. “It's so much—everything's too much—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His thumb finds your clit, and you bite back a scream. “Let it happen. Stop fighting it.”

And you do.

The tension pulls tighter, tighter, tighter until it finally reaches its breaking point, tearing his name from your throat like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. Wave after wave crashes through you with devastating force, drowning you, pulling you under until you can't tell where you end and he begins.

“That's it. I can feel you—you're so—shit—” He groans as you clench around him. “That's perfect—you're so fucking perfect—”

The world goes white, then dark, then fractures into a thousand glittering pieces. And through it all, there's only him, the scent of sea and something purely Rafayel enveloping you like a tide. Only this. Only the feeling of coming completely undone and being held together all at once.

But it only stokes the fire higher.

Even as you're falling apart, even as ecstasy tears through you, you need him. More of him. All of him. The pleasure only sharpens the craving, makes you ache for him in ways that feel endless and impossible to satisfy. Like he's the only air you want to breathe, the only thing that could possibly fill this emptiness—and yet having him like this only makes you need him more desperately, more completely, until the want for him becomes something laced into your bones, something that pulses with every heartbeat.

“More, Rafayel,” you hear yourself beg. “I need more.”

“More? Still?” His laugh is delighted even in his wrecked state. “I've created a monster. A greedy, insatiable monster.”

“Your monster.” You don’t mean for it to come out as breathless as it does.

“Damn right you are. My greedy, beautiful monster,” he says with a kiss to your temple. He sits up, taking you with him, and shifts you toward the edge of the bed. “And lucky for you, I take very good care of what’s mine.”

He positions you both so you're facing his full-length mirror across the room—him sitting on the edge of the bed, feet flat on the floor, you arranged in his lap just like you were on the couch earlier. But now there's no clothing between you, nothing hiding the way you're joined, the way the two of you look wild and hungry and completely undone.

“There,” he murmurs against your ear, eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “Want you to see what I see. How pretty you look like this.”

His hand trails up your stomach to cup your breast, jaw going slack as he savors how responsive you are for him—back arching, thighs clenching, nipples hardening into stiff peaks.

“Remember when we were on the couch like this? When you were grinding on me, so fucking needy, and I was trying so damn hard to be good?”

He kneads your breast with steady hands, eyes never leaving your reflection in the mirror.

“I wondered if you'd be loud, or if I'd have to work for those sounds—” He takes your nipple between two fingers, pinching and twisting, drawing a sharp gasp out of your throat.

“Loud,” he says with satisfaction. “Good to know.”

His fingers trace up your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back to claim your mouth with his—like he suddenly remembered he had permission to kiss you, like he can't believe he wasted even a second not doing it.

“Look at us now,” he admires, rocking up into you slowly, returning your gaze to the mirror. “Look at what you’ve done to me.”

“I need to know how you look from every angle—” His lips brush your neck, teeth nipping the sensitive skin below your jaw. “In this mirror, against that wall, bent over my desk—”

Your hands grasp for the bedsheets blindly, needing something—anything—to hold onto as he bounces you up along his length, forcing his cock deeper inside you each time you sink back down.

“On your back in my sheets, on your knees with your mouth wrapped around my cock, riding me in my studio with paint on your skin—” His breathing gets hotter, heavier against your skin with each admission. “—want to learn the answers to every filthy question I've been asking myself about you since the day we met.”

“Like what?” Your voice comes out breathless, trembling as he pulls you closer.

“Would you be my model? Wearing nothing for me, letting me study every detail on this perfect little body?” He sucks a bruise into your throat, soothing the mark with a kiss. “Would you blush if I did that? If I took you surrounded by all my paintings of you?”

His eyes drop to your chest, where pink is already blooming across your skin. He hums, low and approving—but he’s not finished with you. Not yet.

“If I had you in my shower, pressed against the tiles, water running over us—would you be good and let me wash you everywhere? Or would you take control like you did earlier?”

The words alone could be your undoing, but paired with the feeling of him thrusting up into you from below, it’s almost more than you can take.

“Rafayel—” you cry, head tipping back against his shoulder as the sensation overwhelms you.

“And if I woke you up with my mouth between your legs, would you say my name the same way you did just now?”

Suddenly he's moving faster, harder, chasing something primal and desperate.

“But what I really wonder is…” His hand finds yours, prying your fingers from where they’re fisted in the bedsheet, lacing them with his. “If you'd let me keep you. If I asked you to stay—not just tonight, but really stay—would you?”

His other arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him as his movements grow more fevered.

“I can’t stop thinking about what life with you looks like. Because I want it. I want it so badly it scares me.” His thumb traces your knuckles, gentle even as the rest of him moves with urgency. "Your things everywhere, mixed up with mine. Coming home to you every single day. Falling asleep tangled together like this every night. I need to know—do you want that, too? Because I do. Gods, I do."

You can see it suddenly, so vividly it makes your throat tight. Waking up next to him. Your toothbrush next to his. Fighting over closet space and his hand reaching for yours in sleep every night. The picture he's painting isn't just beautiful—it's exactly what you've been too scared to want out loud.

“Yes.” The word rushes out like you've been holding it in. You squeeze his hand tighter, turning to meet his gaze in the mirror, needing him to see that you mean every word. “I want it, too. I want everything with you.”

His grip tightens on your hip, and you feel the rumble of approval in his chest. “I'm keeping you. You know that, right?”

“Then show me,” you challenge. “Show me I’m yours.”

Your bodies move in tandem—you rolling back as he thrusts forward, both of you chasing the same desperate need, claiming each other with every movement.

“Close—” He manages, sweat-damp forehead falling to your shoulder. “Tell me you're close. Need you to—need us to—”

Your free hand reaches back to tangle in his hair, holding him near. “Inside,” you plead without hesitation. “I need to feel you come inside me, Rafayel. I need it more than anything.”

“Yeah? You sure?” But his hips are still chasing yours, like he can't stop.

“Rafayel—please—”

His hands are shaking where they grip you. “You're sure—because I can't—I'm about to—”

“I want all of you. I need all of you.” You pull at his hair, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Give it to me, please, I need—I need you to—”

He breaks with your name on his lips, pulling you down hard against him as he comes. You follow a heartbeat later, pulsing helplessly around his cock as he spills deep inside you, filling you so perfectly, so completely. You've never felt this safe or this loved. Never knew you could feel both at once—protected and cherished, guarded and adored. Like he'd fight the world to keep you safe, then hold you gently once it was over.

The wild, uncontrollable need that's been tearing you apart all evening finally eases. The need is still there—you still want him, maybe more than before—but it feels right now. Like it's coming from you, not from some external force. The relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.

You’re crying, and you can’t even articulate why. Just that it’s over. The need is satisfied. You can breathe again.

“Hey—hey—” He shifts you in an instant, easing out carefully and gathering you against his chest. He wraps both arms around you, cradling you like he's trying to shield you from everything. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, but you can't catch your breath long enough to speak. Can't explain that nothing's wrong, that everything is finally, finally right.

“Talk to me.” His hand cups your face, thumb brushing away tears that won't stop. “Please, cutie, you're scaring me—”

“I’m okay. I’m okay, I just—” Another sob catches in your throat. “It’s finally—the ache is gone, and I can finally—”

Understanding crosses his face, followed immediately by something that looks like pain.

“Oh.” His voice cracks slightly. “Oh, baby.”

He pulls you tighter against him, holding you like you’re something precious, and you feel the exact moment his own composure breaks. A shudder runs through him, and then warmth, wetness against your hair.

“I'm sorry,” he chokes out. “Gods, I'm so sorry you had to feel like that. I'm sorry I made you wait so long—”

“Rafayel—”

“I watched you suffer all night.” His arms tighten around you until you can barely breathe, and you can hear the tears thick in his voice. “Watched you beg me, and I kept trying to be responsible, kept telling myself to wait, and you were in pain the whole damn time—”

“Don't.” You burrow closer to him, your tears soaking into his shoulder. “You were trying to do the right thing.”

“I know, but you still suffered.” His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head. “So I'm going to spend—I'm going to spend as long as it takes making it up to you. Every single day. However you need.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, chest tight at the tenderness in his tear-streaked face. “You don't have to—”

“I want to.” He brushes away your tears even as his own continue falling. “I want to take care of you. Always. If you’ll let me.”

“Rafayel…” Fresh tears spill over, but they’re different now, softer, born from something warm blooming in your chest.

“Is that a yes?” A smile lights up his face, real and unguarded. His fingers trail leisurely down your spine. “Because if not, I can be very persuasive. Give me five minutes to make my case—”

“Your methods of persuasion are very transparent,” you murmur, but you're grinning right back at him. “But yes. Always yes.”

You poke him in the ribs, smile turning mischievous. “So, Mr. Persuasive—what's the story for Thomas?”

“The truth?” He tilts his head as he considers it. “‘Sorry I ignored your calls, Thomas, but I was busy defiling my bodyguard’?”

“Don’t say defiling.”

“You’re right. How about, ‘Forgive me for sending you to voicemail, but my bodyguard was having a sexual emergency that required immediate hands-on treatment’?”

“That’s worse.”

“‘Apologies, Thomas, I was balls deep in—’”

“Rafayel!”

He laughs, bright and ruthless. “What? You want me to lie to my own manager?”

“I want you to have some tact.”

“Tact is boring. Besides—” He kisses your temple, still grinning. “—surely he already knows. His ‘my artist is being an idiot’ sense is very finely tuned.”

“Oh, god.” You bury your head in his chest. “He’s going to kill you, isn’t he?”

“Worth it.” He presses more kisses everywhere—your brow, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Besides, you'll protect me. It's literally your job.”

“My job description doesn't include protecting you from the consequences of your own terrible decisions.”

“It should. I make a lot of terrible decisions. Like spraying a mystery cologne bottle that's been collecting dust in my bathroom for years, apparently.” He grins against your skin. “Which I am absolutely keeping, by the way.”

“What? No! We’re throwing it away. Far, far away, where no one in this universe will be able to smell it ever again.”

“Are you kidding? You know how many months I’ve been trying to get you to look at me the way you did tonight?” His smile is so infectious, you can’t help but grin, too. “That cologne is going in a safe.”

“Rafayel…”

“Fine, fine. We’ll throw it away.” He pauses. “After I find out where it came from.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun." You lift your chin, sticking your tongue out at him playfully. "You literally just—”

“Oh, I remember." His thumb catches your bottom lip, pressing gently where your tongue just was. "Trust me, I’ll be remembering every second until next time.”

“Next time?” He says it so easily, like it's inevitable. Like there's no question there will be a next time, and a time after that, and forever. The certainty of it should scare you, but all you feel is anticipation.

“Next time.” He shifts, reaching for the blanket and pulling it up over both of you. “You like me. You admitted it. No take backs.”

"Fine, no take backs." You smile against his skin. “Love you, you insufferable brat.”

“Yeah?” He tucks the blanket more securely around your shoulders, voice softening. “Love you too, cutie. Even when you're chasing me around my studio like a woman possessed.”

“Especially then,” you correct sleepily.

“Especially then,” he agrees with a quiet laugh.

秦彻 SYLUS QIN

It’s all a blur—the cramps twisting inside you, your head spinning, vision blurring. The gun slips from your shaking hand, but Sylus doesn’t notice that. He notices the way your scent changes, sweet and sharp, his pupils shrinking in horror before widening with something worse.

You barely hear him call your name before glass shatters and his Evol drags you both out of danger.

Fuck. This wasn’t how he was supposed to find out you weren’t a beta. You’d been so careful—suppressants doubled, routine perfected—but you hadn’t accounted for a high-risk mission throwing your cycle off balance.

“Pheromones,” you croak, clutching your stomach, curling fetal in the passenger seat.

He doesn’t hesitate. Soon, the car is heavy with his presence. His pheromones wrap around you—warm like a leather jacket left in the sun, like the earth after rain, rich and grounding. Your cramps dull…for a moment. Until they hit again.

“Please. m’sorry,” you murmur, guiding his hand to your cunt, soaking through your pants.

“Kitten.” His jaw is tight—warning—or pleading—it’s impossible to tell apart.

“For fuck’s sake, Sylus. Please.”

That’s all it takes. His hand shoves into your pants, sliding two fingers in while the other stays on the wheel.

“Fucking soaked,” he grunts, his pheromones thickening as your cunt holds him in a hot grip.  

He groans once more as you clamp tight. “Heat suppressants. Is that why this is that bad?”

You give him a look. But he just curls his fingers in you, making a whorish moan rip from your throat. “Fuck—fuck me. please.” You cling to his arm like a lifeline.

“Sweetie.” His brows furrow but God he’s so hard at that. “Do you realise what you’re saying?”

“Just shut up—for once and listen to me.” your jaw tightens as you hold back a sob.

It’s how you’re on his bed, pants off, the angry tip of his cock already dragging between your soaked lips. his face is close to your hot one, his arms secured around your arched body.

His cock slips into you. he pushes forward once—his delicious weight crushing your body. And the draaaaag of his stupidly thick dick along your pulsating walls—ohhh—

“Sy—!” a weak moan escapes you as you cum around him.

“Already, kitten? I’ve barely filled you.” he cradles your face as your eyes open. Your hips rock once, pushing his head deeper.

He sighs, and lifts off you. you nearly whimper at the lack of his skin against yours. But soon, his pheromones come alive, drowning you. his hand snakes below you knee, hooking it up and pressing it way back to your chest.

“Now that you’ve come to,” he drawls, pulling his hips back until only his tip remains. “Let us begin.” And with that, he surges forward, filling you in one long stroke.

You mouth hangs open as you fall limp under him, your cheek wet from drool. Your cramps have dulled and there’s only the pressure of his dick filling your womb so perfectly at each brutal snap of his hips to yours.

Your body rocks at each thrust. Strings of whimpers fall from your mouth as he fucks you. You don’t know if you’re imagining it but his pheromones tickle your skin like they have a mind of their own. How long had you been suppressing your heat?

“Stay with me.” Sylus grips your chin, his cock never stopping its heavenly abuse.

“mmpph—please more,” where do you find the audacity, truly?

He chuckles darky until he pulls back and thrusts hard. “ah—hah yes fucking perfect!”

His finger finds your clit, just keeping it there, still, it has your body quivering. He buries himself to the hilt once and spills into you with a deep groan.  

And as if your womb has a brain of its own—you cum with him. Just at the taste of his cum.

“Your pheromones are going haywire.” He rasps, eyes closing briefly. You’re so ferally horny that even the syllables he articulates has your pussy fluttering around him. Why wouldn’t you though? Sylus had always been such an alluring alpha. And now that he’s bred you, you wanted more.

…you wanted his knot.

Yeah, you’ve lost your mind.

“Tightening around me,” he groans low in chest, keeping you full of his dick, kissing your womb each time. “If you keep this up, I might knot you.”

“Do it,” you feel him throb inside you. Hard. Like he was swelling—

“don’t—” he bites his tongue, nostrils flaring as he tries to calm the way his blood pumps to his cock. He gives you another thrust regardless—before his energy links slither around your body, flipping you on your stomach.

You whine. But he has to. If he doesn’t—if you keep your slutty mouth running—you’re gonna have a thick knot swelling in you, plugging you and keeping you full of his warm cum.

his hand snakes around your throat, bringing your face back close to his. Your back is arched, ass flush against his hips as his cock drives deeper into your pliant hole. Already overstimulated from finishing so wildly.

“g-god sy—too deep—please!”

“Why did you lie?” his thrusts turn punishing. Sharp.

“I—ngh! Thought you didn’t want a weak partner.” His fingers curls around your neck. Your face feels hotter now. Your thighs press together as you inch closer to cumming hard on his heavy cock again.

“Weak?” he nearly spits those words out. “Kitten. You’re the last person on this planet I’d describe as weak.”

His hand comes down again, to find your clit. His cock screws into you with precision. Making your gummy walls pulsate happily around him.

“fuuuuck. fuck sylus!” you cry out.

“Alpha, beta or omega. It doesn’t fucking matter to me. you’ll always be the strongest woman in my life. And you’re the only one I’d want by my side.”

You’re soaking up the sheets at this point. Your juices spilling and spilling endlessly.

“cum for me.” his lips trace the shell of your ear, before biting your earlobe. And that’s it. You cum around him. Desperately. Pathetically.

Pussy wringing him for his cum. Begging to be bred full. And he gives you. Loads and loads and loads of his cum. It doesn’t stop. And your pussy doesn’t let up on milking him until he’s completely dry.

“You’ll spend your heat cycles with me from now on.”

Who are you to argue.

夏以昼 CALEB XIA

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

You thought you could skip your heat suppressants this month. Your doctor had listed all the side effects of the pills. So maybe since you were all alone this weekend, you could let your body be for once. Caleb wasn’t coming over this week. Or so he said.

But here he was, outside your door.

How were you supposed to know he was planning a surprise?

You can’t stop your pheromones. you can’t pretend Caleb’s not knocking on your door and louder now that he can smell your essence flowing through.

“you got an omega in there?” the knocks get insistent. Shit.

“y-yeah. just—just leave for today, okay?” you lie through clenched teeth, one arm over the couch for support. Did you truly think this would repel him?

The door opens. When did he get the key—

The minute his eyes fall on you, he freezes in horror. “no fucking way…” he breathes.

“Caleb I—lets discuss this—” you tremble, falling to the ground. He rushes to crouch beside you. Caleb’s pheromones come alive in response to your wild ones. He has to hold his breath to keep himself in check. And you sense it. His restraint. The only way to escape the interrogation is—

Your lips crash to his, and it doesn’t even take him a second to devour you right back.

“make it stop. Please.” Your hand trails down, low to his hard on. Of course.

That pretty much seals your fate. He lifts you with one hand, and within ten paces he’s putting you on the bed.

He’s on you, nose buried in the crook of your neck, drinking in that sweet scent you keep spilling.

“fuck is this what you needed? An alpha to make it all go away?” his hand traverses down, between your legs where you keep oozing your love juices. You whimper at his words, back arching with need.

“caleb please—”

“you think you’re in the place to make demands pips?” he murmurs darkly. And then you feel it. The way his cock springs free and hits your stomach. Hot and heavy and—you look down—leaking precum that makes your cunt spasm. He taps your clit with the angry red head of his cock.

Before you can let out the whimper stuck in your throat, he pushes in.

“ohh—oh please—” your legs spread wider to accommodate him to no avail. He’s too big. Filling you up too much. Your walls are forced to open for him. “too—hic—big!”

He doesn’t give you a moment to adjust before he’s driving into you again, tits bouncing at each hard thrust, allll the way back out and then alllll the way in. your jaw falls slack, eyes glazed with need.

“pretty pussy takin me so well though, baby.” He leans back, watching his dick get smothered in your juices as it keeps disappearing in your little hole.

His finger finds your clit, wetting it with all the mess you dribble out around his cock.

“hngh—! Cale—”

“why’d you hide it from me?” he asks, yanking you closer by your thighs.

“you’d—mmph—treat me like a baby—” your eyes flutter shut as he slams his cock right against your sweet spot buried deep in your gummy walls.

“like what? Do things for you?” he smirks, his thumb teasing your hole as his cock stretches it. “don’t you like it? Me spoiling you?” he groans to himself at it.

You manage to shake your head even as every thought gets fucked out of you.

“no?” he stops abruptly and you whine so pathetically that it reverses each statement of self-respect you’ve made.

You feel weightless as his evol lifts you and places you on him, slamming you back down on his cock. “Well go ahead. Show me how much you hate it when I do the work.”

Your thighs shake as you attempt to move. You try to move. To prove something. But your legs quake, your body burns, and you end up grinding helplessly against him. Not deep enough. Not full enough.

“Fuck, Caleb—”

He cups your face, brings you nose-to-nose.

“Just say it,” he whispers. “Say you need me.” you nod erratically at that.

Wet thwops echoing as he fucks up into you, bullying your hole into swallowing him deeper. “ohmygod—mmfuck!” your head lolls back, eyes shut as he drives into you from below. One sharp thrust and it has you pulsing around him as you cum.

One more thrust and he’s spurting ropes of his cum into you. but then…

“ca—caleb—?!” he grows. His cock gets bigger, and you pussy keeps milking it as his knot swells inside you.

“sorry pips. I need to.” He groans deep as his knot keeps all the thick seed in you—plugged. He lasts only a moment until he’s grinding you on his knot.

“hahh! Istoomuch!” his knot probes your g spot, and the more he grinds, the more it massages that spot making you see fuckin stars even though you’re mad overstimulated, pussy still fluttering in the aftershocks. Tears fall free now.

“Take it. Cum ‘round my knot, baby.” He grunts, pulling you against him, his knot shifting to a delicious angle, pressing so perfectly against that swollen spot—your pussy just dumbly clamping around him, sensitive from all that overuse.

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in slow, torturous circles.

“gonna cum—hah—again, pips. You’re gonna take it like a good girl, riight?” his eyes fall on the bulge that forms in your lower tummy. “fuck, you ready to be bred?”

Your nod’s barely a tremor, but it’s enough. He grips your hips, thrusting up hard, deep, relentless. Wet, obscene sounds fill the room. Your orgasm crashes through you, violent and shattering, and his follows—hot and heavy—until you feel it.

And after hours, your heat finally tames into dull cramps.

Maybe having Caleb find out wasn’t as bad as you had thought.

沈星回 XAVIER SHEN

The Association knew your ABO type. Not your cute coworker-slash-neighbour living upstairs. And really, you hadn’t even lied. When he’d assumed you were a beta, you’d simply… not corrected him. A harmless omission.

Until one day, your heat hits. The consecutive missions had been weighing on your mind. Enough to make you forget to take your heat suppressants for the month.

You’d shut all the windows, even taped the edges halfway before a worse wave of cramps hit and you had to curl in fetal on the couch. And as you’re trying to take controlled breaths, you see a basket being lowered onto your balcony. Curiosity drives you toward it.

it’s from Xavier. Painkillers, lavender essential oil and a note. Fuckin hell he knows.

I had some painkillers at home. and the other stuff. Hope it is helpful.

And so, one thing leads to another and you’re begging him to come downstairs.

He has you close to him—back pressed against yours, hands in your panties and two of his fingers in your cunt.

“Xavier… this isn’t helping.” You croak helplessly, hips grinding back against him. You hear him suck in a sharp breath. His pheromones start feeling thicker now.

“you want my cock?” it’s a sultry whisper in your ear. Far from innocent.

“y-yes…”

Your panties are slid aside as the blunt head of his cock teases your hole, coating his own cock in your warm syrup—before slipping in, making you stretch open around him inch by inch.

You whimper into the pillow when he buries himself to the hilt.

“m’so full.” You mewl, hips chasing it.

“and you still want more?” he raises a brow behind you. “okay.”

And he drives back in. filling you once more. Your thighs tremble, pressing together as he fucks you slow and deep. The angle makes your head spin. He’s nestled against that deep spot so well that you’re already close.

Still, you whimper for more—restless. For that itchy emptiness in your womb to be filled. His palm rests on the side of your waist as he leans close, making the head of his cock shift closer to where you want him.

“what’re you begging for?” his voice is low whisper in your ear.

“wanna-wanna be filled.” You manage. You feel him halt for a moment before he hikes up a thigh. You yelp in surprise but he’s already pounding the blunt head of his cock back into your gummy walls.

“hngh—Xav-Xavier.” You babble incoherently the minute he kisses your cervix. His essence comes alive, encompassing you as he brands you with his cock over and over again.

By the time he slows his pace, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum or how many times he’s filled you full.

Xavier pulls out, only to see your walls push out his creamy spend in a weak pulse. The sound you make is barely human. He exhales something rough, something that sounds like he’s losing the last thread of restraint he ever had.

His thumb presses lightly to your swollen rim, puffy pussy lips tingling with need, circling it once as if testing how sensitive you are. The answer hits him immediately when your whole body jolts.

“…greedy,” he mutters under his breath, voice ragged. “You don’t want to let any of it go, do you?”

“mmh—no—please—”

Your hips twitch, your hand reaching back for him without thought. He catches your wrist, pins it to the small of your back, and watches another bead of slick roll down your thigh.

Then he pushes two fingers back inside you.

You gasp, going taut around them, sucking them in like your pussy recognizes him now and refuses to let him go. His fingers curl, gathering the creamy mess he left inside you and nudging it deeper, deeper to your womb.

“you’re—,” he murmurs, leaning over your spine, his breath hot against your ear. “Still clenching. You’re not done.”

Your breath stutters. “Xavier… please… need—”

“You need me to keep you full,” he finishes for you, like he’s reading straight out of your instincts. He withdraws his fingers, slick and dripping, and you feel the heavy drag of his cock settle between your thighs again. Thicker now. Harder, if that’s even possible.

He guides himself back to your messy pussy lips, tapping lightly against your overstimulated hole before pushing the head in, slow enough to make your eyes cross. The stretch burns in the sweetest way, your walls fluttering as they try to pull him deeper.

“Good,” he whispers when you moan. “Open for me.”

Your legs fall apart on instinct.

He shoves in with a single, unhesitating thrust.

Your mewl against the pillow as his hips mold flush to yours, your body accepting him like it’s starved for it. His chest presses to your back, trapping you under him as his hand slides under your lower belly, holding you in place while he grinds deeper, deeper, deeper—

“Stay like this,” he says against your neck. “I’m not stopping until your heat settles.”

You sob in blisfull agreement.

Xavier starts moving.

Slow at first. Deep enough that your toes curl with every roll of his hips. Then faster, his rhythm tightening into sharp, precise strokes that spear straight into that molten spot inside you. Your breath breaks, your vision shatters, and you’re already trembling before the next orgasm even crests.

Your body clamps around him so hard he groans into your skin, low.

“That’s it,” he hisses. “Keep milking me. You’re going to take all of it this time.”

His hand slides down, thumb working tight circles over your clit while he fucks you deeper, the bed shaking underneath both of you. Pressure coils so brutally that you’re practically ripped open by the pleasure when it hits, your walls spasming around him in relentless waves.

Xavier isn’t far behind. His pace stutters, his grip on your waist bruises, and with a groan that sounds dragged from the bottom of his lungs, he spills inside you again, thick and hot and endless.

Your body shudders, overstimulated and so full it aches.

Xavier breathes hard against your shoulder, but he doesn’t pull out. His fingers hold your hips steady, keeping every drop inside you.

“Not done,” he mumbles, voice a deep, exhausted rasp. “Your heat’s nowhere near finished.”

You whimper, already trembling under him. And he rolls his hips again.

祁煜 RAFAYEL QI

Your fork barely touches the plate before the first cramp hits. You try to school your face, but Rafayel’s eyes are on you instantly, bright and nosy as always.

“You good, cutie?” he drawls, tipping his head, curls falling over his cheek. “You look like you just saw your report card.”

You force a shaky laugh and wave him off. “Just… gas.”

He hums, unconvinced. Meanwhile, your heat is blooming too fast, rising under your skin, threatening to drag you under. Why weren’t the suppressants working well?

Another cramp snarls through your abdomen. You grip the table edge.

His eyes narrow. “Okay. That wasn’t a ‘gas’ thing. What’s going on?”

Your pulse skitters. You need relief. Something to anchor you. You swallow hard and manage, “Your… your pheromones. I just—what do they smell like, again?”

There’s a beat where he just blinks. Then his brows lift, slow, almost elegant.

“My pheromones,” he repeats. He leans in like a cat catching a scent trail. “You’ve been hiding something from me, miss bodyguard.”

The way he says it feels like a fingertip down your spine. You don’t answer. You can’t. Another wave hits and you shudder, breath hitching.

Rafayel’s expression shifts, his dramatic flair flickering into something sharper. Calmer. A tone you’ve never heard from him.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

It doesn’t take him much time to drive you back to his place. He carries you down the hall, pushes into his room, and sets you on the bed with a care that barely matches the tension in his body. The scent of him settles around you, curling warm and sweet, thick enough to make your thighs part on instinct.

Rafayel’s gaze drops between your legs, breath stuttering. “Cutie… your scent is driving me insane.”

Your heat spikes at the sound of his voice. You reach for him, dragging him in by his shirt. He kisses you immediately, deep and dizzying, his mouth soft but insistent as your body arches up against him. His pheromones hit you in a hot wave and you moan into his lips.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You do, chest rising and falling too fast, the need clawing through your skin. He slides his hands up your thighs, pushes your panties aside, and the moment the cooler air hits you, you gasp.

“cutiee,” he whispers, eyes darkening as slick gathers between your legs. “You’re already dripping.”

You try to squeeze your thighs together but he stops you, fingers pressing them open again. He leans down, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh… then settles right between your legs.

The first slow lick of his tongue makes your hips jump. The second pulls a broken sound from your throat. He sucks gently at your swollen clit, breath warm against you, one hand holding your thigh steady while the other slides under your ass to lift your hips closer to his mouth.

Your heat flares. Hard. Violent. You grab at his hair as your back arches off the bed.

“Rafa—Rafayel, I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” His voice is thick, hungry. “You need this, don’t you?”

Before you can answer, he flattens his tongue against you and pushes two fingers inside you. Your body clamps down instantly, drawing them deeper. The relief is so sharp you whimper, hips rocking helplessly.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you today, miss bodyguard.”

You fall apart on his fingers, pleasure hitting so fast you barely manage a gasp before the orgasm crashes over you. He doesn’t pull back. He keeps licking you through it, his spit mixing with the sweet syrup you ooze out. He keeps fucking you with his fingers until the overstimulation burns into need again.

You’re shaking when he finally lifts his head. His lips and chin are slick with you. His pupils blown wide.

“Round one.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls up your body, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your throat. “You’re not done, cutie.”

You barely register his clothes being pulled off him, his body settling over yours, his cock heavy and leaking against your soaked entrance. He cups your face, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone.

Your eyes meet his and his pheromones roll out in a deep, sweet rush that goes straight to your spine.

The second he pushes into you, your breath breaks. The stretch is intense, perfect, your walls gripping him so tight he groans against your ear.

“Warm… so warm…” His hips snap forward, burying him fully inside you. “suuuch a sweet pussy. Clinging so pathetically.”

You cling to him, heat twisting your nerves raw as he starts to thrust. Slow at first, deep enough to make your toes curl. Then faster, his grip tightening on your waist as he pounds into your syrupy cunt, every stroke hitting the spot that makes your vision blur.

Your legs lock around him. “ohhmmhhh ye—rafayel—ah—please—”

He catches your wrists and pins them above your head, leaning down until his forehead touches yours. “I know. Just take it. You need it reeal bad.”

His thrusts get sharper. Harder. The bed creaks. Sweat slicks your bodies together. The smell of your heat and his pheromones mixes into something thick, intoxicating. Your climax builds hot and brutal, tearing through you the moment his thumb drops to your clit.

You cry his name. Your poor cunt spasms around him. He groans, hips jerking as he presses as deep as your body will take him.

He fills you. Hot. Thick. Pulse after pulse until you’re trembling under him, stuffed full of his creamy goodness.

But he doesn’t soften.

He kisses your jaw, breath shaky. “That’s two.”

“wha—angh!”

His hips roll again, slow, deliberate, keeping everything inside you.

“You’re not done,” he whispers, licking into your mouth as he starts moving again. “Your heat wants more.”

And he gives it to you. Again. And again. Until the room smells like nothing but the two of you tangled in instinct and sweat and pleasure, until you lose count of rounds and the world narrows to the feeling of his body claiming yours until your heat finally, finally settles.

Rafayel collapses beside you, pulls you against his chest, and presses a kiss to your temple.

“Next time,” he murmurs into your hair, “just ask nicely, baby.”

黎深 ZAYNE LI

"breeding.”

—Is the last word you’d use with Zayne. much less ask for it. Yet here you are after his little pheromone outburst at the hospital. You’d lied about being a beta right from the beginning. Avoided the Akso hospital to get yourself checked, avoided Zayne half your high school after you bloomed late.

All because of one thing—like his evol, Zayne had a hard time containing his pheromones. and being a decently dominant alpha, his pheromones would often push omegas around him into heat.

As it did to you when you thought of visiting him to drop by lunch. The moment you entered his office, your knees weakened. Your stomach twisted in painful knots. and he—he had to rush you back home after learning everything. Even your unhealthy dosage of heat suppressants that you ingested each month because of him.

“I’m not leaving until you’re alright.” He kneels by your bed as you curl up in pain.

“s’not your f-faul-fuckinsonofa—” you breathe once as a cramp hits. “just leave. It’s—” a breath again “…fine.”

“untrue.” His jaw flexes. Adamant idiot. It’s the pain that makes your brain fry enough to forget all boundaries.

“breeding. Tha—aghh—! Is what’ll stop it.”

You don’t give him a chance to process before your lips are crashing with his. He freezes for a moment until he melts into it, slowly rising from the floor and onto the bed when you clutch his collar.

“there is a high chance this might result in unwanted—”

“I know. We’ll get me some pills.” You huff, guiding his hand to your soaked, hot cunt.

His wrist twists, catching yours. “are you certain?” his eyes are softer. Scared.

You nod. And then cup his face despite your womb internally punching you.

“of course.” With that, he pulls you on him, keeping you close, thighs against his knees.

His fingers find the edge of your panties, slipping through easily. Two fingers circle your entrance before pushing in. you grind on his lap. His hips lift for a moment, chasing that friction.

You whimper in pain and that’s what makes Zayne finally pull out his cock. Thick, heavy and so, sooo ready to ruin you.

But the moment you lift your hips to finally sink, your cramp hits.

“I’ve got you.” he murmurs, stroking your hair with one hand and the other guiding his leaky tip to your pussy.

Your hips roll once and you wince again. “stop.” His brows furrow in a silent correction.

“relax.” He murmurs as he eases into you, slowly, filling every inch sooo good that it has you whimpering. Your walls stretch around him inch by inch.

“zay—mmhh so—” your eyes roll back, mouth open.

He lets out a soft sound at the way you clutch around him so perfectly. Fit him like a fuckin glove.

His hips raise once. Testing. And judging by your already fucked out look, he thrusts harder this time. your nails dig into his shoulders as your own hips roll once the pain ebbs away giving way to molten pleasure.

Your walls flutter around him at each kiss of his cock to your overly welcoming womb.

“m’so close…” you whisper, burying your head into his neck, breathing in his scent that singlehandedly calms your pain. His fingers find your clit, rubbing taut circles on your swollen nub, smearing your arousal over it.

Your pussy keeps clamping around him tighter and tighter and tighter—

“c-cumming—ohhhmy—zaynee—” he fills you to the hilt, giving your syrupy, greedy walls something to milk.

And ohhh that you do. Enough to have him explode into you, filling you with hot ribbons of cum, making it cream around your hole—mixing with your honey.

He slowly sets you down are you come down from your high. But his cock is insistent. Still hard, still keeping you full of him.

“s’not enough—” your hand comes down to your stomach. But Zayne captures it, bringing it to his lips, kissing the inside of your wrist.

“then let me satisfy you.” He pulls back only to fill you up again.

Messy strings of his cum dribbles out of you, spilling onto the sheets. His hips move again, this time—pounding you.

Deep, looong strokes, each reaching the end of you and back out.

“hngh—m’too full—” you babble, moans stuck in your throat.

His hands part your thighs, hiking them up so your body can take him deeper if that were even possible.

Your walls flutter around him hungrily again with every deep thrust, your hips rolling on instinct as he fills you relentlessly. Strings of his cum mix with your arousal, dripping down the curve of your thighs, and the scent—his pheromones, his essence—wraps around you, making you all hot and coaxing you towards your orgasm.

“Zayne—mhh… s-so deep…” you whimper, nails digging into his broad shoulders as he keeps moving, slow at first, then harder. A cocktail that messes your brain chemistry.

 Each stroke hits that perfect spot, and you sob, lost between pleasure and the ache that still lingers from your heat.

His hands move to your waist, holding you firmly, but gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, almost tender, brushing a strand of sweat-damp hair from your temple. “I wish I could control it—”

You shake your head weakly, lips parting in a soft moan. “S’not your fault… Zayne,” you breathe, tilting your head to kiss his jawline, tasting the mixture of him and yourself. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He groans softly at your confession, letting it wash over him before pressing back into you, hips snapping against yours with a fresh, deliberate force.

“cum for me, my sweet.” A kiss is planted to your temple. “please.” He adds softly as he reaches down to rub your clit, pushing you closer to your climax.

But he beats you to it. Breeding you full—once more—giving you everything you’ve begged for tonight. Still, he mumbles apologies, thrusting into you—pushing through his overstimulation. He nearly cries out when you cum around him for the last time tonight.

Regardless of what you thought, Sylus had never been blind to your presence in his life. He still remembered when you were 10 years old and had climbed a tree too high and subsequently became too frightened to climb down. He’d had to climb into the tree with you to help you down, and he had done it without a second’s hesitation. He remembered when you proudly showed him your first piece of needlework at 12, the flowers slightly misshapen and lopsided, but he’d praised it nonetheless. He remembered when you were standing next to him in front of both of your parents at 14, nervously twiddling your fingers as the two of you were told you’d been promised to each other as eventual spouses. He remembered when you were 17 and Caleb had made a passing comment to him about how pretty you were becoming and Sylus had shot him a look so quickly he nearly snapped his own neck. He remembered the first time he kissed you at 19, how soft your lips had been and how your hands felt cupping his jaw and how worth it it was to risk the scandal. But what he remembered most vividly was the way your face crumpled when you’d told him that you’d been chosen as a candidate for concubinage to the emperor. He’d never forget the raw grief and anger he felt the day you left for the interior palace.

Sylus would stand against God if it meant taking his rightful place at your side, so who was an emperor to stand in his way? But he waited. Plotted. Planned. He’d be yours and you would be his, even if he had to burn the whole palace to the ground. 

----------

You weren’t sure how it had happened, but during one of your outings you had been noticed by a eunuch sent to your town with the express purpose of scouting potential companions for the emperor. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The eunuch visiting your family home. Discussing what this meant with your parents. Informing Sylus, whose face would be seared into your memory forever. You may as well have ripped his heart from his chest. But the wants of the emperor superseded all else. What you had thought to be fated, written in stone, was ripped from you before you could truly fight for it. Your bags were packed by the maids, your tears wiped clean by your mother, and your heart still held securely in Sylus’ hands, even as you were loaded into the carriage tasked with taking you far away from all that you had known and loved.

You didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then you did so in as few words as possible. The trip was long and tiresome, but you did eventually arrive at the gates of the Forbidden City, the grandeur of the palace stealing the breath from your lungs. You tried to remain positive. You really did. Thousands of girls were chosen for this process and the vast majority of them were sent back to their parents. So, in all likelihood, you would be back home within the week. Surely.

Upon arrival, you were sorted into a group of other girls your age. Everything about you was assessed: your height, weight, skin, face, hair—even the way you spoke. By the end of it all, the number of girls had drastically decreased, and yet still you remained. One month, you were told. You would remain for one month as an entry-level concubine under the observance of other court women. It was a terribly long month, as you were not allowed contact with anyone outside of the palace. Your entire world had shrunk to just the inner court.

As luck would have it, it was your inquiry about the possibility of sending letters that exposed you as literate, a valued quality. You had always considered your family’s noble background a privilege, but it was unfortunately that very privilege that gave you all the traits desired in a concubine. 

50. There were only 50 of you left. Again and again you were needled about your knowledge of literature and the arts. You had always been studious, and it showed when you were ranked highly amongst the remaining girls. You had considered lying and making yourself seem far more uneducated than you actually were, but dishonesty towards the emperor was not taken lightly. You’d be flirting with severe capital punishment, possibly even execution. It wasn’t worth the risk of never going home again. Of breaking the hearts of your family—of Sylus—more than they already were.

So, you persevered. But marked were your words—the emperor would never touch you. You could abide being chosen, as much as you loathed the thought, but you would die before allowing him in your bed. Should that ever happen, you would never be permitted to leave, a fate worse than death.

In the end, no matter how much you wished to kick and scream and cry, you were chosen to remain in the inner court. Whether your family was notified or not was not disclosed to you. You hoped they were, and you hoped Sylus would not completely give up on you. In the meantime, you decided, you would keep your head low and not draw attention to yourself. An unnoticed concubine is an untouched concubine.

------------

After a month of your absence, Sylus joined the imperial army. If he remained idle waiting for your return, which grew more and more unlikely by the day, he was apt to completely fall apart. Caleb chose to join as well, and he had been the one to inform Sylus that it wasn’t unheard of for generals and high ranking military officials to be rewarded for valor with a concubine of their choosing. If he could swallow his pride and serve the man who had taken you from him in the first place, he could potentially win you back.

The training was grueling. The two men had already built quite the physiques with the training they had already done, but the army honed and polished their skills to their fullest potential. If they were intimidating before, they were downright formidable now. But that was only training. Sylus had yet to see battle. He had yet to earn any merit that could allow him to move up the considerable ranks it would take to garner any favor or notice from the emperor.

But he would do it. Would follow orders to a T, would shoulder every task, would cut down anyone who opposed him until the emperor himself was felled by his sword if that was what it took. Though for now, he would settle with helping quash the small insurgence that was causing trouble in the south.

------------

While Sylus was risking life and limb to make a name for himself in the army, you were navigating the complexities of the inner court’s social hierarchy.  Though discouraged, there was much jealousy among the concubines, something you had come to know after witnessing an unfortunate interaction between two others. 

Jingshu, the name one of your ladies whispered to you, was a high-ranked concubine, a favorite of the emperor. You caught ear of her berating Xinyue, whom you were surprised to recognize as one of the girls who had been evaluated in your group. 

“Why would he go to you and not me?!” Jingshu’s face was red from anger, the stark white makeup not enough to hide the deep flush on her cheeks.

You witnessed how Xinyue did a remarkable job of not letting the injustice of such a public confrontation allow her to lose her composure. In a sure and steady voice, she responded, “Perhaps the emperor simply has no use for a concubine who is already pregnant.” 

A sly grin slid over her face as her eyes drifted downwards to the slight bulge of Jingshu’s abdomen. That grin was enough to tell you that she knew exactly what she was doing, antagonizing Jingshu and very skillfully getting under her skin. You suppressed the small smile that would have turned Lady Jingshu’s wrath on you should she have seen it. It was unlikely through the audience that had gathered around the spectacle, but it was not a risk you thought worth taking. Xinyue had nerve, you’d give her that.

As entertaining as you found it, Jinghsu found it equally infuriating. “You—!” she reeled her hand back, prepared to strike Xinyue. The crowd stirred and a eunuch pushed his way through. He’d likely be punished for this later, but he wrapped a hand around Jinshu’s wrist, effectively preventing her from harming the other concubine. Jinshu looked at him incredulously, likely having never been opposed before due to her social standing within the inner court.

Jingshu yanked her arm from his grip, ready to rage at the poor eunuch who clearly only wanted to deescalate the volatile situation. Before she could get a word out, he sputtered, “Lady Jingshu, you should not be exerting yourself so much!” He gave a meaningful glance to her abdomen. Her words were arrested in her throat, a grimace on her face as she took in the implication. She lowered her arm and the eunuch released her, a clear expression of relief painted on his face.

With one last sneer towards Xinyue, JIngshu stormed off, her ladies in tow. The eunuch turned towards Xinyue, seemingly to ask if she was okay. Now that the yelling had stopped, you couldn’t hear as well as before from your spot at the edge of the courtyard, so you assumed that was what he was saying anyway, especially since Xinyue gave him a small smile and nod of affirmation. With your entertainment clearly having come to an end, you continued on your way.

That had been nearly two weeks ago, with no sign of Jingshu since, the concubine presumably staying cooped up in her room to be doted on by her ladies during her pregnancy. That, or she was rightfully embarrassed by the show she put on and was waiting for some other drama for people to gossip about. Xinyue, on the other hand, you saw quite often. The first time you had spoken was when you saw her painting in one of the open-air pavilions in the imperial garden. Your curiosity got the best of you and you found yourself wandering closer, trying to peer over her shoulder to see what she was painting. Unfortunately, your curiosity led you a bit too close, and she noticed your presence creeping up behind her.

She turned to you, somewhat surprised that anyone other than her attendants had been watching. Recognition shone in her eyes when she took in your face, sheepish expression and all. “I know you! We came here in the same group!”

You were shocked she remembered you, but pleased nonetheless that she seemed friendly despite what had occurred with Jingshu. You returned her smile before answering. “Yes, we did,” you said with a small laugh. “Truthfully, I’m surprised you remember me. There were so many girls.”

She acknowledged your words with a nod. “True, but you stood out so much it was hard not to notice you.”

Stood out? You had done your best just to blend in, what could possibly have made you stand out so much that Xinyue remembered you? “Did I really?” You asked.

She pressed her lips into a thin line, debating how best to word her thoughts. “You always seemed so sad. Never talked to anyone, never smiled…” she trailed off, her brows somewhat raised and eyes wide, concern practically radiating off of her.

Of course you had been sad. You still were. You didn’t want to be there. You should have been at home, helping your mother with the household tasks or having tea with your father. More than anything else, you should have been preparing for your wedding. 

Xinyue could see the swirl of emotions in your eyes, and she gestured to an empty seat at the table where she was seated. “Would you like to join me? You could share whatever is bothering you. Might make you feel better. Or we could request more supplies and you can paint with me?” She asked hopefully.

You eagerly accepted the offer to join her, having spent most of your time in the palace alone, save for your ladies who didn’t seem to have the extra time to socialize with you in between their daily tasks. It wasn’t even proper for them to walk next to you on your walks around the gardens, always keeping at least two steps behind you at all times. Xinyue requested that one of her ladies bring more supplies, and you gladly took a seat beside her.

“Not to be too forward, but do you want to talk about whatever is making you sad? It seems like more than just not wanting to be here.” You hesitated and she picked up on it immediately. Waving her arms in front of her, she quickly backpedaled. “Of course, you don't have to if you're uncomfortable!”

You laughed at her franticness, the feeling almost foreign as it had been so long. You shook your head, “No, it’s okay. I think it would make me feel better to share with someone.”

You picked up the paintbrush one of the ladies had brought out to you, and Xinyue followed your lead, resuming her painting while glancing your way and waiting for you to begin your story.

You took a deep breath, trying to briefly collect your thoughts before finally speaking. “I was promised in marriage before coming here. We were going to marry next spring. I’ve known him my whole life. Our parents are close friends and business partners, so they thought that by arranging their children to marry they could ensure joint prosperity. It wasn’t just an arranged marriage for me.”

Xinyue had a soft, sympathetic look on her face. She knew exactly where this was going. You continued. “I really did want to marry him.” Your voice cracked and your throat was becoming painful with the effort to not cry. “It was a palace eunuch that thought I would be a good candidate. So now I’m here, and I’ll likely never see him again. He’ll marry someone else and I will still be trapped here.” The tears spilled then, against your wishes and best efforts to keep them at bay. You rushed to wipe them from your face, but she placed a gentle hand on your forearm.

“It’s okay to cry, y’know? I won’t judge you for being upset.”

You only shook your head, not quite ready to be that vulnerable with a woman you had only just made the acquaintance of, no matter how kind she’d been so far. When you had sufficiently pulled yourself back together you turned your full attention to her, unfinished painting left abandoned in front of you. “How did you come to be here?”

Xinyue flushed, somewhat ashamed at her circumstances after hearing yours. “I come from a noble family. My parents wanted to elevate their political and social standing.” She didn’t elaborate further. She didn't need to; hers was a common story. Many noble families sent their daughters as candidates to directly tie their family to the imperial line, especially if their daughter happened to bear a son.

From there, the conversation drifted to lighter topics. Discussing books you had both read, complimenting each other’s painting skill, even arranging to meet again the next day since you’d both found the other could play an instrument—why not play together? At some point, she leaned in to whisper to you if you had heard anything about the skirmishes in the poorer regions of the country. She seemed almost shocked. Apparently, it was a great hubbub where she was from, though you had heard of no such civil unrest.

Xinyue, sweet as she could be, was more than happy to fill you in. The emperor, and the government as a whole, really, wasn’t following through with their promises to send food to struggling townships. Some of the people took it upon themselves to attack traveling merchants, making the roads dangerous. You took in her words with rapt attention. 

Though you didn’t know it, as you were learning about the strife that apparently riddled the nation, your beloved was actively fighting on behalf of the empire. 

------------

One after the other they fell by his sword. Old, young, it didn’t matter. He had his orders and he would follow them. He would ride through the ranks, he would be recognized by the emperor, and he would have you as his. You were the one single point on which all of his drive and motivation was hinged. How the slaughter of bandits and petty thieves would get him there, he didn’t know, but he didn’t need to. He just knew that his tasks were important to his commanders, so he would complete them without fail or hesitation. 

However, it didn’t escape his notice how frail some of the men looked. They were far too weak to fight imperial soldiers, but still they fought with the desperation of men that had everything to fight for. But so did he. 

Still, he thought it odd that these men, who clearly were not equipped for this lifestyle, were so determined to condemn themselves. He never got the chance to ask them himself, and he certainly wasn’t going to question his senior officers. It wasn’t until he was promoted to captain that he finally got an answer. An answer for their desperation. Their frailness. Their hopeless yet unrelenting pursuits. Simply put, they were starving. Each time Sylus had fought what he was led to believe were petty bandits, he was really fighting ordinary citizens like himself, albeit much worse off financially than the Qin family.

It was only after he had made it to the rank of commander, the highest rank sent out on what the empire considered small, inconsequential skirmishes, that he was able to give the order to interrogate rather than kill on sight. From one of the countrymen he learned that a recent drought had decimated their crops, leaving the people in dire need of food. He turned to the men in his troop. “These men will not be harmed.”

The man who had been made to kneel before Sylus looked up in shock. Before he could say anything, Sylus continued, now addressing the man. “Hunger is not a crime. But thievery is. I may understand your motivations, but the emperor does not have a tolerance for such a crime. In return for sparing your life, I expect the theft to stop and for each of those involved to await further word from me.”

Sylus was playing with fire and he knew it. That night, with his men gathered around the campfire, he explained to them that not a word of this was to be spoken of. It wouldn't matter if Sylus took full responsibility—the entire regiment would be punished. It took some convincing, but none of them could deny that he had a point earlier. It wasn’t a crime to be hungry. As the men discussed how on board with this they actually were, Sylus stared into the fire, contemplating how he’d be able to tell Caleb about the development without anyone overhearing.

His opportunity came quicker than he anticipated. Caleb had found him first, leading him into the woods surrounding camp. “And what could you possibly have to show me?” Questioned Sylus.

“Oh, shut up and just follow me.”

Sylus rolled his eyes but continued anyway until the pair came to a pier that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. “Ta-da!” Caleb said in a sing-song voice, arms extended dramatically. He wasted no time stripping his outer layers and jumped right in. Sylus opted to sit on the edge of the old pier, his legs dangling in the water. Caleb groaned, “Man, I thought you were going to swim with me. And let's face it, you could use a bath.”

“Apologies for not wanting to strip down to my underwear in the presence of those young ladies,” Sylus chuckled, pointing to a pair of girls on the opposite bank giggling to each other, each with a basket of clothes in their arms.

Caleb looked horrified and almost made to get out of the water before thinking better of it. As long as he was mostly submerged, the murky water would keep him concealed. “Bet it wouldn’t have been a problem if it was Y/n over there,” Caleb mumbled.

Sylus shot him a pointed glare only to be rewarded with his friend’s self-satisfied smirk, pleased to have gotten under his skin. “If it was Y/n you’d have a black eye for undressing in front of her.”

Caleb rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, she’s off limits, I know. Wouldn't dream of taking your girl.”

The conversation lulled, and it wasn’t until the girls across the water left with their now-clean laundry that Sylus spoke up about what had been bothering him. “Those bandits they’ve been having us fight,” he started. “Do you know why there has been such an increase in merchant attacks?”

“Can’t say I do, why?”

“Has it not struck you as odd how weak they are?” Sylus raised a brow at his companion. 

“In what sense? I mean, we are imperial soldiers, so of course average citizens would seem weak.”

Sylus sighed, exasperated. “No, not like that. Weak in the sense that they’re frail. The other day I spoke to one of them. Their villages are starving and the empire is doing nothing to help them. They rob the merchants and travelers to either take whatever food they have or anything of value they can sell.”

As Sylus was speaking, he’d been staring into the water, watching the ripples formed by Caleb’s movements. He didn’t return his gaze to his friend until he’d finished, finding a stormy expression in place of his usual carefree one. 

Caleb huffed and pulled himself out of the water, seating himself next to Sylus and drawing one leg up, his arm propped on his knee. He seemed to be struggling to find the words to say. After a few moments’ thought, he asked, “So what did you do?”

Sylus gave Caleb a full debrief of what had transpired. “Y’know, if any higher ups find out what you did, you’ll get killed for treason.”

Sylus growled. “Which is why they won’t find out. Are you really going to continue to punish these people who are only trying to survive? To keep their families fed?”

A sigh of resignation. “No, I guess not. But what instead?”

“Talk to your men. Let them know we’ve all intentionally been kept in the dark. The generals know that most of the army come from the same types of villages and towns as these people. They would sympathize. But they’ve painted them as thieves and criminals. Of course there’s the threat of execution as well for not following orders.”

Sylus told Caleb of how, in return for sparing the lives of the bandits, the thievery would stop, else it would be all of their heads. It took time and convincing, but he and Caleb came to an agreement: have the men in their regiments spare the citizen’s lives, and convince the citizens that they’re on their side and are genuinely trying to help. 

------------

Music floated through the open windows of the room you and Xinyue occupied. As agreed the last time you’d spent time together, you were playing your respective instruments to create a beautiful melody that caught the attention of any passerby within earshot. It had been many days of practice, and your piece was finally perfected.

As the last note faded away, Xinyue took the opportunity to tell you of her latest encounter with the emperor, sans the savory details. “I told him that I was practicing my music with another girl, and he seemed really interested. He wants to hear us play the piece once we have it down.”

Your face paled. She meant well. She did. But you had done your absolute best to not draw attention to yourself, to not stand out in any way. You knew you couldn’t outright refuse the emperor, but every cell in your body was screaming to stay far, far away from him.

You smoothed the fabric of your dress (the beautiful garment likely costing more money than you could fathom) in an attempt to soothe yourself and gather your thoughts enough to form a coherent sentence.

Still, Xinyue was nothing if not observant, as you’d come to find out when you first met her. Her brows pinched together. “You look upset. Should I have not said anything?”

You sighed, resigned to the fact that you would probably have to intentionally make a fool of yourself to tarnish your image in the emperor's eyes. “I don’t want the emperor's attention on me,” you finally confided. “Whether I’m here or at home my heart still belongs to Sylus. None that lie with the emperor are ever permitted to leave, and I simply can’t allow that to happen.”

Xinyue’s eyes widened, her lips forming a perfect O-shape. “I didn’t even think what it could mean for you. I was just talking—“

You cut her off quickly. “No! It’s not your fault!”

She looked ashamed for a moment at having brought such distress to her friend, but it was quickly replaced with a stern, determined expression, an idea forming in her head. “He likes graceful and confident women. Trip on your dress. Stutter when you speak and do so quietly. Keep your head down and twiddle with your fingers. I can’t undo my words and I can’t prevent him from coming, but I can help you be as unappealing as possible to him.”

Though you were still anxious that you were to be thrust into the spotlight before the emperor, you were thankful that Xinyue was there to help, even if she was the reason for the mess in the first place. 

------------

Later that night, after you had gotten ready for bed, you found yourself unable to sleep. You just couldn’t get comfortable, and every sound was amplified in the stillness of the night. Clearly you weren’t getting any sleep, so you huffed and sat up, contemplating what to do with your newfound free time. Your eyes wandered to the small desk you had been provided with in your room, untouched stationary sitting atop it just waiting to be used. You hummed to yourself, thinking as you frowned at the lantern you had already blown out with no way of relighting it. You eyed the wooden brushes scattered on the desk. It wasn’t ideal, but it would work without having to wake someone.

You chose one brush at random and exited your room with it, on the lookout for the nearest lantern that still had a candle burning. You found one and scurried back to your room as soon as the wooden end of the paintbrush was lit. You probably looked like some kind of fool, but that could work in your favor given the circumstances, so you weren’t particularly bothered. 

Now with an appropriate light source, you could start what you’d wanted to from the beginning. Even if you couldn’t send letters outside of the palace, you could still write them. You opted to use the paintbrush you’d sacrificed, almost as an apology for using it for anything other than its intended purpose. 

My beloved Sylus,

The palace is a terribly dull place. It’s beautiful, but I find myself doing the same things every day. There was one instance when I witnessed an argument between two other girls. Jingshu, who has an ego larger than the palace itself, and Xinyue, with whom I am now friends. It was entertaining, short lived as it was. But now that I’m friends with Xinyue it’s not something I want to see repeated. With another girl perhaps. 

Lately, Xinyue and I have taken to playing music together. She’s a lovely erhu player, but today she told me that the emperor wishes to hear us play. I haven’t met him and it worries me to be in his presence. Xinyue said she’d help me be less appealing to his tastes, so hopefully all will be well. 

Life here is so boring there’s not much else for me to share. I’m well taken care of and never go without anything. Much of my copious free time is spent wondering what you’re doing at that exact moment. I hope you’re well. 

Yours always,

Y/n

Not a literary masterpiece by any means, but it’s not as if you’d be able to send it anyway. You sighed, eyes downcast on the drying ink. When you were certain the ink would no longer smear, you folded the letter and placed it in one of the drawers. Couldn’t afford anyone reading that, could you?

With nothing left to occupy yourself, you decided to at least try to get some sleep tonight. You left the lantern lit this time, having learned your lesson the first time. If the candle burned out, then so be it. The palace could afford more. You settled into the sheets, and, thankfully, sleep found you quickly this time. 

------------

“You mean, you’re not punishing us?” The man asked timidly from his knees, Sylus’ imposing figure standing over him. 

“Consider the fear of being killed itself your punishment. I’d like to speak with you privately if I may?”

The man nodded quickly, more than willing to do whatever was asked of him if it meant his head remained attached to his shoulders. Sylus followed him to what he assumed was the man’s private residence. Upon entering, Sylus was greeted with the sight of two young children chasing each other around the home. The thinness of their arms did not escape his notice. He frowned, a small furrow forming between his brows. 

“Do you see why—“

Sylus held up a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I know. It’s the same all across this region. It’s also why I want to speak to you.”

Sylus explained everything to the man. How he was on the cusp of being promoted again, how, if he could earn that sway with the emperor, then he could personally implore the government to help its people. It was asking a lot, he knew, but he needed to be able to tell his superiors that the thievery would not continue, and for that to work he needed the man’s cooperation, and that of his accomplices as well. The man was hesitant to agree, for obvious reasons, but acquiesced. Sylus informed him that he would be in touch. 

Time and time again it was the same thing. Truth be told, he was tired of giving the same talk over and over again, but it would all be worth it in the end. 

It was during one of these routine raids that Sylus came across a pair of young men. He had given them and the other men the spiel and deal he’d given everyone else. Instead of slinking back home like he’d expected them to, however, the two approached him. As they neared, Sylus couldn’t help but glance between the two. Twins, they had to be. 

“We want to work for you,” declared one of them boldly, the other nodding his head in affirmation. 

Sylus’ eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, shocked. He had been expecting to be confronted, argued with, or even fought, but certainly not this. 

“Are you saying you wish to join the army?”

“No,” said the one who had nodded. “We want to work for you, specifically.”

Sylus’ initial shock morphed into confusion. These two couldn’t possibly be serious. He decided to gloss over it for the time being. “What are your names?” He asked, addressing the one who had first spoken so boldly. 

“Luke,” he responded. Sylus looked to the other one. 

“Kieran.”. 

“Right, and why would you want to take orders from me, specifically?” His confusion was mounting every second he didn’t get an answer or know for sure that these two were genuine. Although, in the event that they were, he already had a task in mind. 

“Because there’s nothing for us here. We don’t have a purpose of our own right now, but you seem like you do, so let us fight for your cause until we find our own.”

Sylus was taken aback. He pondered how best to go forth. On one hand, they could be advantageous to have in his service, on the other, they could get killed in the process, and Sylus wasn’t sure if that was a weight he wanted on his conscience. Still though…

He exhaled heavily through his nose. “Can the two of you pose as eunuchs in the Forbidden City?”

Initially, they had begun to smile, excited at the prospect of having a mission. But then the words actually registered.  “We wouldn't have to actually become eunuchs, right?”

“Of course not. That is why I said ‘pose’ as eunuchs.”

Their relief was practically palpable. It was Kieran who pressed for more details. “Why do you want us to go there?”

“There’s a woman there I need to get in contact with. Her name is Y/n L/n.”

“We can do that, but why do you need our help with that?”

“Because she’s not a servant; she’s a concubine. They’re not permitted to contact anyone outside of the palace. So I need you two to relay messages.”

The twins nodded solemnly. “How will we know where to address our letters back to you once we’re there?”

Sylus raised a hand to his face, rubbing at his chin in thought. “There’s a depot nearby. Send your messages there. I should be in this region for a while, so I’ll be able to stop by and collect anything you send.”

Luke and Kieran nodded in understanding. “We’ll set out first thing tomorrow morning.”

With that settled, they each went their separate ways: Sylus back to his horse to return to camp, and the twins to their home to prepare for the long journey ahead of them. 

------------

You were going to be sick. You could feel the bile rising in your throat as your nerves wreaked havoc on your body. With Xinyue’s coaching, you knew exactly how to behave to ensure the emperor took no interest in you now or, even better, ever. 

The servant girls were scrambling around, ensuring that tea and snacks were prepared and the instruments set up and ready to be played with skill befitting a personal companion of the emperor. 

You knew when he had arrived not because you saw him, but because the maids went deathly quiet. The idle chatter that had previously filled the ornately decorated room had come to a complete halt. Your heart pounded in your chest, threatening to burst with the intensity of its beats. You and Xinyue rose from your seats and turned to greet him.

Nervous as you were, perhaps you didn’t even need Xinyue’s help to make a fool of yourself. You felt more than capable of doing that all on your own. 

The emperor returned the greeting to each of you, his eyes lingering on Xinyue in a way that made your skin crawl. You knew the purpose of having so many women at his fingertips, just waiting to be graced with his favor, but you could not imagine your entire life being dedicated to a man who may not ever so much as spare you a glance, much less love you. You thought of Sylus. He had looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, like you were the axis on which his whole world spun. The emperor did not look at you in such a way. 

When his attention shifted to you, his eyes roved over your figure, almost analytical in the way he scanned up and down. He was younger than you had anticipated, but still clearly older than you and most of the other court ladies.

Once the emperor was fully settled in his seat, indulging in the steaming cup of tea that had been carefully poured for him, you and Xinyue took your respective seats. She got into position to play and looked over at you, ensuring you were ready as well, your fingers hovering over the strings. 

You counted off together and began to play in sync, the long draw of her bow across the erhu creating a melody perfectly completed by the plucking of your guqin. It was a lovely piece, truly, just such a shame to be played for a man you harbored such animosity and fear towards. 

He had a small smile on his face as he watched the two of you in silence. As the music continued, his attention drifted from Xinyue to you with a contemplative expression. You didn’t like that. Not one bit. 

He likes confident women, you remembered Xinyue telling you. You plucked the wrong string, the sharp note ringing harshly in the air. It was a jarring sound, immediately disrupting the gentle melody that had been permeating the space. You spared a glance at the emperor, who seemed somewhat disgruntled. You also didn’t miss the sideways glance from Xinyue, who knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was intentional.

After your small error, you played up the act of a nervous woman. Of course, you truly were nervous, but not for the reasons you needed the emperor to think. You hunched your shoulders more and tucked your head lower than it needed to be. But this wasn’t the last of your little “mistakes”. 

When the piece had come to its conclusion, you both waited for the emperor’s remarks.

“The music was lovely, though I falsely believed I gave you ample time to perfect it. It seems as though more practice time would have been beneficial.” He didn’t outright say if, but that was most assuredly directed at you. Even still, he didn’t seem as disinterested as you wanted him to be. You’d have to try harder. 

As the emperor rose to take his leave, you and Xinyue did so as well to see him out, presenting you with the perfect opportunity to ensure that the emperor would never so much as look twice at you. When you went to step forward, you hooked your foot around the leg of the table that supported your guqin. You went sprawling to the floor, and, for a brief moment of horror, you thought the now-teetering table would come down with you, guqin and all. Thankfully, the table stabilized and your instrument was unharmed, but your reputation in the eyes of the emperor was certainly not. He looked down at you with mild disdain, the corners of his lips turned down slightly in a small frown.

Your little performance was made even better by Xinyue’s presence. She was regal and poised throughout the entire affair, the perfect contrast to the bumbling fool you had made yourself out to be. 

Still, the show must go on. You scrambled to your feet, the servant girls having rushed forward to help you up. You hurriedly glanced at the emperor and plastered a panicked look on your face, ready to further tarnish his view of you with words (You should stutter when he speaks to you) instead of just actions. But he wasn’t even looking at you. No, he was thanking Xinyue again for the evening, and then he made his leave.

You walked forward to stand next to Xinyue, watching the emperor until he was out of sight. The moment you could no longer see him, Xinyue dismissed the servants. Upon their exit, she turned to you with all the excitement and giddiness of someone whose wildest dreams had come true. “It worked! It worked!” She lunged herself at you, her arms wrapped around your shoulders. She pulled back before you could return the gesture. Your own broad smile mirrored hers. Tears welled up in your eyes from sheer relief.

Even if you could not be with him, you would remain loyal to Sylus until the grave.

The remainder of your day was spent in the company of Xinyue. It wasn’t like either of you had any other important matters to attend to. Your only function in the inner palace was to be pretty and produce children. You were thrilled that you had been able to make such a good friend. It was also to your great amusement that she was very well informed about the happenings of the palace. She was quite the gossip. Apparently, Jingshu had caused a ruckus again, this time directed at a laundry girl who had been unable to remove a stain from one of her outfits. You rolled your eyes at the story. As if Jingshu wasn’t extremely pampered in the court and wouldn’t have a replacement by the end of the day.

Interestingly, there were also rumors of a new eunuch who was seemingly everywhere all at once.

“From what I’ve gathered from my ladies, one person might see him in one area, but someone else will say that they just saw him in a completely different part of the palace. It’s strange. Perhaps he runs everywhere he goes.”

The conversation naturally drifted towards other topics until, before either of you knew it, the sun was setting. “Oh my, it got late quickly,” giggled Xinyue.

“Indeed it did. We should both ready for bed. Would you like to visit the bathhouse tomorrow?” You offered, thoroughly enjoying the time spent with her and already looking forward to more chances to hang out.

She nodded eagerly. “But only if we look for that new eunuch first.” You recognized that familiar glint in her eye. You laughed lightly, your curiosity admittedly piqued as well. Palace life had been so boring that even this small mystery was enough to have you intrigued. You bid each other good night, and you made your way back to your own quarters.

During your walk, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being followed. You quickened your steps, eager to return to your room. You tried to reason with yourself that you could simply be paranoid, or that those faint rustling sounds were from the trees and not the fabric of one’s clothes. Either way, you surely weren’t going to turn around.

When you made it back, you double checked that every door and window was firmly shut and locked. Your heart was racing, but for what? You didn’t even have proof, or reasonable suspicion for that matter, that you had been in any danger. You shook your head to clear the thoughts. It wouldn’t do you any good to dwell on it, and you would only make yourself even more paranoid.

With a sigh, you plopped down at your desk, intending to write another letter to Sylus. It had become a nightly ritual of sorts, though it was more like writing in a diary than letters meant to be sent to someone. They were mostly short, telling him about your day and asking questions about his that you so desperately wanted the answers to. How were your families? Was he faring well helping his father’s business? Are your peonies still blooming? 

And, the one that you could never bring yourself to write for fear that you would write it into existence—

Has a new bride been chosen for him?

Again, you chose not to dwell on it. There was nothing you could do if your worst nightmare had actually come to pass, and it would only serve to upset you. As far as you were currently aware, it was only a hypothetical situation that deserved no more consideration than the dirt that kisses the bottom of one’s shoes. You took a deep breath to gather your scattered thoughts as you pulled out the appropriate materials to begin your nightly letter.

My beloved Sylus,

Today Xinyue and I played music for the emperor, and I made a right fool of myself. Intentionally, mind you. Plucked the wrong strings, refused eye contact, and even tripped over a table leg. I really thought I had overdone it and would take the table down with me, but it was fine. It would have been a shame to damage the guqin I was supplied with. It is of extraordinary craftsmanship. It was embarrassing having to pretend I’m less than what I am, but entirely worth it since I do believe that the emperor will not seek my company.

After that, I spent my day with Xinyue. Jingshu has been causing trouble again. It’s always something with her. This time it was a laundry girl who was victim to Jingshu’s anger. Something about a stain she couldn’t remove. Xinyue also told me about this new eunuch who seemingly has a knack for being in two places at once, so those are our plans tomorrow. Finding him, that is. 

Also, while I was returning from Xinyue’s quarters I could have sworn I was being followed. Truthfully, I was too scared to turn around so I walked faster. I’m writing from the desk in the safety of my room now.”

A sharp rap sounded on the window. Your pen stilled and your breathing practically stopped as well. Your room was now dead silent as you sat motionless in your chair, waiting to see if the sound would come again or if your brain was just playing tricks on you. You were waiting on another knock, but instead you heard the whispers of a hushed argument from outside your window.

You took a deep breath and rose from your seat as silently as you could. You listened intently, only making out snippets here and there. Small phrases such as “right room” or “sleeping.” The occasional insult, as well.

You swallowed thickly and reached out a hand towards the window. With your grasp now firmly on the frame, you yanked it open, revealing two young eunuchs. In their startled state, they both jumped back a step.

“What are you doing?” You asked bluntly. Seeing that it was just some palace eunuchs, you calmed down somewhat, but you were still concerned about why they were there at all.

“Ah, well,” started one.

“We were just, um,” continued the other one.

“Just spit it out, please. What reason do you have to lurk outside of my bedroom at this time of night?” You were growing frustrated. Just who were these two? Granted, there were many eunuchs employed on the palace grounds, but in your few months there you had never seen these two.

“Are you F/n L/n?” Asked one suddenly.

“I am. Why?”

Their faces brightened and they turned to look at each other, ecstatic over something you didn’t understand.

“Mr. Sylus sent us!” Exclaimed one.

You immediately focused all of your attention on the one who had spoken. “Sylus sent you? Who are you and how do you know him?”

“I’m Luke, and this is Kieran. We were part of a not-so-legal group and Sylus was the captain of the—”

You cut him off. “Captain? Do you mean he’s joined the army?”

“Oh, did you not know that?” Asked Luke, his head tilted to the side.

You didn't answer, lost in thought about what could have possibly made him join. Somehow, you knew Caleb was involved.

“No, I didn’t,” you answered, your brows arching up in surprise. Sylus had never had any interest in military pursuits, so why now?

“Anyways,” continued one of the—whom you assumed to be, at least—twins. 

. . .Twins.

It hit you just then, and you had to fight off the smile your lips so desperately wanted to form. Who could be in two places at once if not twins? 

“Mr. Sylus took us on as his employees of sorts. We were sent here to find you.”

“He seems to care a lot about you,” chimed the other one. “Who are you to each other? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We grew up together. We were even supposed to get married, until I got sent here.” Your voice took on a wistful tone as you spoke. 

For a brief moment, the twins looked as if they regretted asking. With some hesitation, Kieran asked, “Why haven’t you written to him?”

Luke elbowed him. “Because she’s not allowed to, duh. Mr. Sylus told us this.”

Kieran had the proper sense to look embarrassed, his face flushing red. “Oh, yeah.”

Luke continued, “If there’s anything you want to send him, we can take care of it. It’s why we’re here.”

You were skeptical, you had to admit. You knew the rules about correspondence outside the palace walls, but these two knew Sylus by name. You were uncertain, but your eyes slowly drifted to the unfinished letter, and then to the drawer that housed every other you’d written with the belief that he’d never read them. 

You turned back to the twins, ready to ask the question that had weighed heavily on your mind since your arrival in this horrid place. “How is Sylus? Is he well?” The deep care and concern you held for the man in question was written all over your face as you anxiously awaited their response. 

“Uhhhh,” was the collective response of the two boys. “Sorry, but truthfully we don’t know him well enough to answer that.”

You nodded in understanding, disappointed but ultimately not surprised. “So, if I give you two something, you can get it to Sylus?”

Their previously apologetic expressions immediately morphed into ones of excitement. “That’s why we’re here! Give us what you’ve got and we’ll handle the rest!”

You chuckled at their enthusiasm, quickly becoming enamored with their amusing attitudes. While gathering all the letters you had written over the months, your eyes landed on the unfinished one at your desk. You looked to the window where the twins were waiting patiently, whispering amongst themselves. “Could you give me a few minutes to finish this?” You asked, holding up the letter. 

With their somewhat overeager approval, you picked up where you had been interrupted, drawing a line under your last sentence. 

“Shortly after writing the above portion, there was a knock on my window. Scared me half to death but I had nothing to worry about. Just two identical admirers. 

P.S. The army? That has Caleb written all over it. Please be safe. 

Yours always,

Y/n

The second the ink was sufficiently dry, you folded it and added it to the stack. It struck you then, that there was in fact something else you wanted Sylus to receive. You dug through your pockets and pulled out a small square of cloth. It was always on your person, but you rarely found actual need for it. You placed it within the stack and began to dig through your desk drawers. You could have sworn you had some string somewhere. Pulling the drawer out completely, you finally found it tucked away at the very back. Of course. You should have known the second you needed it it would practically be hiding. 

With the string now in hand you wrapped the letters securely, using a small knife helpfully supplied by one of the twins to sever the material to a reasonable length. 

Upon handing over the stack to Kieran, it was safely stashed away in his robes, hidden completely out of sight. “We’ll have these sent out first thing tomorrow, miss.”

With that, they were gone. No sign that they had ever been there. Certain you wouldn’t be writing any more letters tonight, you blew out the lamp and crawled into bed with a warm smile on your face, your mind filled with thoughts of ruby red eyes and silky silver hair. 

------------

Letters. Filled with your handwriting. Your thoughts. Even your tears, if the small blotchy smudges were any indication. This was the closest Sylus had been to you in so long it was like having a tiny piece of his soul restored from when it had shattered all those months ago.

Overcome with the sheer relief that you were okay, he withdrew to his tent to pour over every letter like it was sacred text. He was meant to lead these men, not show them a side of himself they were never meant to see—the side that was only for you. As he read through them, he noticed that a “Xinyue” was mentioned frequently. You’d made a friend. Even if he couldn’t be there with you, it was comforting to know you had someone there who cared. There was also a Jingshu, whom Sylus couldn’t help but roll his eyes at with her every appearance in the day-to-day chronicles you wrote for him. 

However, all the amusement of the palace gossip was washed away immediately when he read that the emperor would be visiting you. Not bothering to read the rest, he flipped through the mess of paper on his cot, looking for the appropriate date that followed what he had just read. He’d kill the man personally if he had forced anything. 

The second he found what he was looking for, his hand shot out to take it from the pile, his overzealousness causing the fragile paper to crinkle in his grip, his lips a thin line and brows pulled into a deep furrow. 

A table leg. You’d tripped over a table leg to intentionally make yourself undesirable. A deep chuckle erupted from Sylus’ chest, his nerves releasing themselves in the form of laughter. As his laughter abated and he looked over your letters fondly, still scattered around him, he realized that they all began and ended the same way. He was still your beloved, and you were still his. His heart clenched in his chest. Oh, how he missed you. Your laugh, your voice, your jokes, the way your hands fit in his, the way your lips had molded to his, how your waist had felt under his hands. 

His thoughts were running away with him and he made no effort to stop them. You consumed his every waking thought and he didn’t even care. With every fantasy that gripped his imagination Sylus slipped further and further away from reality. He was no longer on his cot in a tent, he was home with you. It wasn’t his hands impatiently freeing his hardening cock from the confines of his pants. They weren’t his own fingers wrapping around the shaft, stroking up and down slowly with single-minded intent. He pictured you in front of him, on your knees with his legs on either side of your head, your warm breath blowing over his sensitive tip right before you took him in your mouth. 

Sylus stifled a groan as the image morphed into you with teary eyes, struggling to take the full length of him into your mouth. Barely able to remain sitting upright, he collapsed onto his cot, your letters with their immaculate penmanship that had been so neatly tied together now spread beneath his large figure. He continued his ministrations, using every ounce of his self control to keep the pace steady, to make the fantasy last longer. 

He thumbed his leaking slit, using his own precum as lubricant. This time, there was nothing he could do to stop the deep moan that pushed past his lips. The pleasure was overwhelming. The mental fantasy changed again. You’d look so pretty on top of him, taking what you wanted, what you needed from him. God, you could use him however you wanted and he’d say thank you.

Would you cry and wail for more? Would your nails scrape over his back as he pounded into you? Would you scream his name as he made you cum over and over again?

His hand shot out to grip the bedding, his fingers digging into a fabric much too soft to possibly be the military-supplied cloth. Your handkerchief. He’d completely forgotten about it. Without a second thought or a moment of hesitation, he snatched the small square of fabric and brought it to his face, inhaling deeply. His eyes nearly rolled into the back of his head from the intensity of it all. The fantasy had just taken on a more real element now that he was able to smell the perfume you always wore. 

It fully immersed him in the image of you riding his cock, your breasts bouncing every time your hips met his. His hands squeezing your hips, guiding your movements. Your tight cunt fluttering around him as he thrusted upwards from beneath you. He gave in to the unbearable need to quicken his hand, his orgasm so close he could practically taste it. He was panting heavily into the cloth still held over his face, the tight grip on his cock as unforgiving as he imagined your pretty pussy would be. With one last pump, he unraveled, his sticky cum splattering over his bare abdomen and the hand over his face pressing tighter, a pitiful attempt to muffle the obscene noises he couldn’t quite hold in, only succeeding in pushing your sweet floral scent further into his nose. It was all too much, and he all but whimpered into the palm of his hand, still riding out his high. 

When he was finally thinking clearly, albeit still out of breath, he couldn’t help but wonder if you had ever indulged yourself to thoughts of him in the same manner. Even so, there was still a part of him that felt bad for sullying the letters, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, only thinking about the day you would be his again, in the flesh and not just his imagination. 

He’d only barely gotten himself cleaned up and presentable when he heard his name being called from outside the tent. 

He ducked through the flap, seeing a young soldier waiting anxiously. As soon as he saw that Sylus had exited, he straightened his spine and nearly shouted the message he had been sent to deliver. “There’s an invasion at the border! You and your troops have been ordered to move out!”

Sylus nodded. “Understood.” He hated taking orders, but it was a necessary evil for his end goal. And this was the perfect opportunity to see if Caleb’s words had any truth to them. He just had to follow through and ensure he earned glory for himself. 

------------

Easier said than done, Sylus thought bitterly as he wiped the long-dried blood from his armor. It had been a difficult battle, but one that would hopefully award him with bountiful military prestige.

“Man, you’ve looked better,” said a joking voice off to Sylus’s right. He turned to see Caleb, who certainly had no room to talk, and Sylus told him as much.

“Fine, I guess you don’t want to hear that we’ve been summoned to the palace. And that the emperor himself is requesting an audience with the two captains that earned him victory. But whatever. I’ll let him know you can’t make it.” Caleb shrugged, making to walk away. 

“Come back here,” Sylus called after him. Caleb turned to look at him, an amused grin on his handsome face. “Are you serious?”

“Yup,” he answered, popping the p. 

Sylus immediately retreated into his thoughts, dirty armor completely forgotten where it lay in his lap. Caleb could see that his friend was no longer paying him any attention. As much as he poked fun at Sylus for his infatuation, there was a part of Caleb that was jealous. He longed to have that sort of relationship, where you would do anything for the other person. It seemed like everyone around him had a lover. Even the medic had a girl of his own (though Caleb wasn’t supposed to know that). She had done an impressive job of disguising herself as a man. He didn’t know her motivations to go to such lengths just to be on a battlefield, of all places, but he figured he’d find out sooner or later. In the meantime, he was waiting on Dr. Zayne to finally notice that his dear little apprentice wasn’t just an effeminate man. 

------------

When the day came, and both Sylus and Caleb were standing before the emperor, you would never know from appearances that Sylus was equal parts nervous and excited.

“You have both proven yourselves more than worthy of advancement. Captain Xia, you will assume the rank of colonel. And Captain Qin, you will assume the rank of general, for your instrumental role in subduing the invaders and in keeping the peace in our great nation’s southern regions. I would like to reward each of you with a gift, as acknowledgement for your great deeds. Other than just the extra responsibility of your new positions!” The emperor chuckled heartily at his own joke. 

Caleb was right. A reward for military valor. Maybe all of this strife and bloodshed would finally be worth it. 

“Well, boys? Any requests? It’s not everyday you get to personally ask for something from me. Land? Money? A title?” He looked at them expectantly. 

Caleb answered first. “Money. I’m not sure about anything in particular, but when I figure it out I’ll already have the funds on hand. 

The emperor nodded, accepting the request.

When it was Sylus’ turn, he spoke smoothly and confidently. “There is a woman amongst your harem that I would like returned to me.”

The emperor was shocked at first, entirely taken back that someone had made such a bold request of him. His shock faded into incredulousness and then to mirth. It was laughable. He guffawed, but Sylus’ determined expression did not waver. This was not a joke. 

“My dear boy, I am the only one permitted to pick the flowers of my garden. Their scent and petals are for my enjoyment alone.”

Sylus wasn’t stupid. He got the innuendo and he was absolutely seething. Even if you were still untouched by this man’s disgusting hands, you were still at his mercy in the palace. He had to choke back a snarl. 

The emperor’s cocky grin dropped momentarily, the phrasing of the request only just now registering. “You said ‘returned’ to you. Elaborate.”

Sylus swallowed thickly. “There is a girl here that I have known since my youth. We were betrothed to each other, only months from marriage, when she was called to the selection process here at the palace. She never returned.”

The emperor nodded with faux sympathy, but he was all too eager to again inform his new general that, no, none of his girls would be leaving the palace grounds. A muscle in Sylus’ jaw twitched, but he gave no other indication of the rage and anguish he felt. He saw Caleb glance at him from his peripherals, his friend’s face practically screaming “don't you dare lose control.”

“So, again, I ask you, is there anything else I can reward you with? I’m nothing if not generous, even if I’m not quite as generous as you had been hoping.”

Sylus pursed his lips in thought. “The reason the people of the South are causing the empire so much trouble is because they're desperate. Could I use my favor on their behalf? To have food sent to the villages?”

For a second time in just a few minutes, the emperor was well and truly shocked. Most of the requests he’d received were about money or a title. Never this. There was no room for a bleeding heart in his military. Especially not one coveting after something that didn't belong to him. He exhaled heavily from his nose, at least pretending to think about it. 

“Rice to the south. Done.” Those fools didn't deserve so much as a second of consideration as far as the emperor was concerned, but it was clear that Sylus wasn’t going to waver in his ideals.

It wasn’t as though he had to specify how much rice, anyway.

“Well, that was unproductive,” Caleb remarked as they were being escorted to the gate that would lead them back into the city. “For you, anyway. Why didn't you just ask for land or something? You know there’s no way he’s going to follow through on what you asked, right?”

“He declined the only thing I wanted from him. Nothing I asked for could make up for it,” Sylus answered. His posture was rigid and his jaw was clenched. Everything about him screamed frustration. Why Caleb even bothered trying to talk to him in this state was beyond him. Sylus fumed the entire journey back to camp, and for days after. He was harsher with his subordinates than he ever had been, not tolerating even a single infraction.

Caleb could see the impending snap in his friend’s reasoning abilities creeping closer by the day, and the thing that finally broke him was another letter that Sylus received from you. The emperor was having the eunuchs question all of the women of the palace—concubines of all ranks, servant girls, and court ladies—if any of them had been engaged to a man named Sylus Qin. He was looking for you. That greedy bastard was actively trying to find the most cherished love of his general. And Sylus wouldn’t stand for it. With both his and Caleb’s promotion, they had each been allotted a much larger battalion. And, unfortunately for the emperor, it’s not hard to radicalize men who see firsthand the suffering caused by the man they're supposed to be loyal to. Also unfortunately for the emperor, he was so dead set on making an example of the South that the ratio of soldiers was skewed in Sylus’ favor.

Additionally, the villages he had been to were eager for a chance to show the emperor just how much of an error he made in abandoning his people. With such influence and ability, it wasn’t shocking when Sylus had a detailed plan put together and delivered to the men within the same week of receiving your letter. The twins had made sure to give Sylus their own updates when you were unable, informing him that you had denied knowing him and that the emperor was losing his patience more easily these days. It seemed it was really getting under his skin. 

If only such effort had been given to the people he was supposed to care for.

The weeks passed quickly, and, once again, Sylus found his armor covered in the blood of others. Screams rang out through the city, and he hoped it was from soldiers that were stationed here in the capital still upholding their sworn duty and not from the innocent civilians. Either way, he didn't have time to dwell on it. There was only one person he cared for at this moment; the person he was committing treason for in the first place and who kept him up at night well into the early hours of the morning.

Caleb, who he had lost track of early in the chaos, sidled up next to him. “There you are. Was starting to think you were worm food. The city is pretty much occupied, and they just got the palace gates open. Ready to head that way?”

Sylus nodded grimly, following his friend to the imposing structure that had been your beautiful prison. But not for much longer.

------------

Maids and eunuchs were rushing to and fro all around you, screams emanating from the surrounding city, but no one would take the time to tell you what was going on. You were near hysterical at this point, scared beyond anything you had ever experienced. You didn't know what was happening, but you knew something was wrong. So terribly wrong. 

“Y/n!” You heard your name yelled from behind you. You whirled around, finding Xinyue in the doorway looking every bit as frightened as you felt. You embraced tightly, relieved to see the other unharmed.

“What’s happening, what do we do?” you asked frantically.

“I don’t know! I heard one of the eunuchs say something about the army, so whatever it is is already being handled.” She tugged your arm. “C’mon, we shouldn’t stay out in the open like this.” She was right. The entire way back to her quarters all either of you saw was panicking staff and other concubines. No one seemed to truly know what had started all this. When you reached her room, she made sure to lock the door behind you both. You could still hear the shouts of people in the halls, but were only able to catch snippets. From what you gathered, the army wasn't here to help like Xinyue had assumed, but rather, they were the ones invading in the first place. And from the sounds of it, had already made it to the inner court.

------------

“Inform the eunuchs that if they stand down they will not be harmed. And I want every single concubine gathered here in the inner courtyard,” Sylus commanded the first soldier he happened to lay eyes on. “Unharmed!” He added.

“Yes, sir,” responded the soldier with widened eyes, clearly downright terrified to be addressed by the imposing general.

Sylus and Caleb stood side by side, looking up at the emperor’s personal palace. As desperately as Sylus wanted to look for you himself, the emperor was still breathing, and that was a problem that needed to be dealt with swiftly.

“Want me to go with you or look for Yn?” Caleb asked, not particularly bothered with what he was tasked to do so long as he wasn't standing around doing nothing.

Sylus thought about it for a moment. “Find her. And if you see some identical eunuchs, send them my way,” he answered.

Caleb obviously had no idea who Sylus could possibly be talking about. Twin eunuchs? How does Sylus even know any of the palace eunuchs? But whatever. It wasn’t really his concern anyhow. He briefly watched the broad back of his friend ascend the stairs before redirecting his attention to his surroundings. There were pavilions in all directions. Had to start somewhere, he guessed, before picking the left side.

All around him, Caleb saw cornered eunuchs cooperating with the soldiers and helping escort the women to the courtyard. Still, no sign of you. Room after room after empty room.

“Miss Yn, Miss Yn!” He heard someone calling. His head jerked to where he heard your name. It wasn't just one eunuch. It was two. And they looked exactly the same. What luck.

“Hey! You two!”

They both screeched to a halt. “What!” Shouted one of them.

“Who are you?” Shouted the other.

“I’m Colonel Caleb with the imperial army and a personal friend of Sylus Qin. He asked me to look for two identical eunuchs. I’m guessing that's you two?

They looked much less wary now that Caleb had introduced himself as a friend of Sylus’. “Yeah, why? We really have to look for someone, so we gotta keep moving.”

“Yn, right? Sylus already asked me to do that. He wants you both to meet him in the emperor’s personal palace.”

They looked at each other and nodded, about to run off again before Caleb stopped them for a second time. “Wait! Where might I find her?”

“Well,” started one of them, “you were actually going in the right direction towards her room, but we already checked and she wasn't in there.” Caleb frowned at that. “So we were  going to see Lady Xinyue, since she and Miss Yn are close.” They quickly explained to Caleb how to get there before both parties set off to fulfill their orders.

Caleb ran at full speed towards where he hoped to find you, but when he reached the room, the doors were already wide open and the room devoid of any presence. He swore under his breath, running a hand through his hair while glancing around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. He hoped at least some other soldier had found you and taken you to the courtyard as had been ordered. Otherwise it would take their full numbers to search the whole palace, massive as it is.

------------

Sylus couldn't believe that the sniveling man in front of him was the man who ran the entire country. After discovering the emperor holed up in his bedchambers, Sylus had Luke and Kieran restrain the poor excuse of a sovereign to a chair that likely cost more than what the average citizen made in a year.

“I made you a general, and this is how you repay me? Treason? What more do you want?”

Sylus leaned down, close enough for the emperor to see the pure unadulterated hatred swimming in Sylus’ ruby eyes. “I want my bride,” he growled, the sharp edge in his voice leaving no room for doubt that he was entirely serious.

The emperor blanched. “You spilled all of this blood, defied heaven, for a woman?” He exclaimed incredulously. 

Without answering, Sylus straightened his back and strode out of the room, leaving the emperor where he was in the meantime. “Luke, Kieran. Stay with him.”

“Right, boss!”

Standing just outside the doors, Sylus could see the women of the palace gathered as he had instructed. Hell, even the eunuchs were accounted for. He made his way down the stairs quickly, all the while scanning through the crowd of immaculately dressed women, about one hundred in all, for one face in particular. His frustration and anxiety grew when he realized he probably couldn't even make out his own mother’s face at this distance, so he switched tactics. Now looking for Caleb’s imposing frame which would surely stand out in a crowd, he figured you’d be sticking by a familiar presence that you knew to be safe. By the time he made it to the bottom of the staircase, he still hadn't found you nor Caleb.

------------

You had been with Xinyue in her room when someone forced the door open. It was a soldier you didn't recognize.

“I need you two to come with me. All of the women are to be gathered in the courtyard by order of the general,” he demanded. You and Xinyue glanced at each other worriedly, but ultimately rose from your cowered positions, grasping each other’s hand for comfort. The soldier, for whatever it was worth, held the door open and gestured for the both of you to exit first.

He guided you towards the center of the inner court, where you saw many of the other women already gathered. He directed both you and Xinyue to join them. Still, no one had bothered to clarify the situation. All you knew was that the army was acting against the empire. The ladies around you were of even less help, unable to offer a modicum of new information.

“Look!” Xinyue whispered. “Someone is coming downstairs!”

You glanced at the staircase, seeing a tall figure descend the steps just as Xinyue had said. But what caught your attention was the silver hair that framed his face. His eyes were scanning the gathered crowd, but they didn't seem to linger anywhere in particular. Your breath caught in your throat. Could it actually be him? As he got closer and closer, still not stopping his obsessive search, his features grew clearer. There was no mistaking him.

He had only barely stepped off the last step when he heard it.

“Sylus!”

And there you were. Running towards him every bit as desperate to be in his arms as he was to have you there.

It felt like his heart and his breath stopped at the exact moment he saw your lovely face for the first time in what felt like millenia. He couldn't move. Couldn't think. But the second you threw your arms around his neck it felt like every broken piece of himself had never been broken in the first place. Without a second’s hesitation or thought, he wrapped one arm around your waist and placed his other hand on your upper back, pulling you into his sturdy frame as much as he could without hurting you.

There was no word for the euphoria you felt at being back in your lover’s arms, no word that could adequately describe the rush of emotions you were currently experiencing. “You came,” you sobbed into his chest.

“Darling, there is no force on this earth that could have even hoped to stand in my way,” he murmured solemnly, lips brushing against the top of your head.

He didn't even consider loosening his firm hold on you until you were pulling away to look up at him, eyes watery and ringed with a puffy red. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words quickly died in your throat. You had so many questions that you didn't even know where to start. Eventually, you settled on simply asking, “How?”

Sylus exhaled through his nose. It was now his turn to be unsure just where to start his tale. “The current emperor is unfit to rule, and these men bore witness to the proof. They were easily convinced. Will that satisfy you for now? I promise to answer every question you have for me, but right now I would like you to come with me.”

The last thing you expected to see when you walked into the room after Sylus was the emperor restrained to a chair with Luke and Kieran flanking either side of him.

“Sylus?” You started hesitantly, unsure what to make of the scene.

When the emperor saw who it was his oh-so-loyal general had brought with him, he couldn't help the laughter that bubbled out of him. He recognized you as the pretty young thing his favored Xinyue often spent time with. A shame your other qualities weren't up to his standards.

“I recognize you. You're Xinyue’s friend,” he said, addressing you directly and opting to ignore his captor for the time being. He watched with narrowed eyes as Sylus stood directly behind you, arms winding around your waist, but continued speaking without commenting on it. “Yn, right?”

You swallowed thickly. Not trusting your voice, you only nodded.

“How does it feel,” began Sylus, the rumble of his voice sending vibrations through where his chest connected with your back. “To watch helplessly while I take what you consider yours?” His hands massaged your waist with sensual strokes as he spoke.

The emperor finally looked at Sylus, a deep scowl disfiguring his already relatively unpleasant face. “Arrogant, aren't you? You ought to know your place.”

“And you ought to know when to hold your tongue,” Sylus responded smoothly. He motioned to Kieran, who was already two steps ahead of Sylus with a strip of cloth in hand, wrapping it around the emperor’s jaw, forcing him to bite down on it. Satisfied, Sylus looked between the twins and the door. They took the hint, leaving you with Sylus and the still-struggling emperor.

When the door was again firmly shut after the twins’ exit, Sylus had to practically pry himself away from you so that he could maneuver you to face him. He exhaled softly when his eyes met yours, wide with uncertainty, but trusting him fully nonetheless.

He cupped one side of your face, his large hand cradling your cheek as he stroked your cheekbone with his thumb. “Are you ok?” He asked. It was a vague question that held a thousand more. He knew that this was a lot to take in, especially over the course of just a few hours.

You laid your own hand on top of his, nuzzling your cheek further into his palm. “I’m fine,” you answered, smiling softly. “Just really happy you’re here.” Sylus mirrored your smile with one of his own, his gaze glancing between your eyes and your lips. With slow, bated breath, he leaned in slowly. It was just a small peck, hardly even a kiss, but he hadn't even fully pulled away when he dove in for more, and you eagerly reciprocated. His lips were all that you knew in that moment—all that you could focus on—and nothing else mattered.

His arms again wound tightly around you, pulling you in close while he devoured your lips as though they were a fine delicacy he’d been deprived of his whole life. It wasn’t enough for Sylus, though. He needed more. He needed everything you were willing to give. His mouth trailed lines of fire down your jaw and neck until he reached a spot that had you gasping. He redoubled his attention to it, biting and sucking and leaving his claim on you for all to see.

“Sy,” you whined, the sensation of his tongue on your throat sending heat directly to your core. He hummed, but he didn't stop, not until you couldn’t  speak again, unable to form a coherent thought.

He finally pulled away to look at your face. “Have you already had enough, kitten?” he asked mockingly. “Or is it that you need more?”

You answered without hesitation. “More. Please.”

He chuckled. “As my princess wishes.” Without any warning, he picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he plopped you onto the emperor’s extravagant bed. You were the very picture of perfection to Sylus, your legs spread just for him and your shallow breaths bordering on needy whines.

He leaned in, recapturing your lips with his. He swiped his tongue across the seam, urging you to open up for him. He groaned into your mouth when you did, tongues tangling together. He slid a hand across your front, settling on your breast and squeezing gently.

You pushed your hips up, hoping to relieve the ache that had quickly settled into your body. He tutted, pulling away from your lips once again and placing a hand on your hips, keeping you firmly in place. “Patience is a virtue,” he said, a teasing smirk that showed you just how much he enjoyed teasing you.

“We’ve been apart for so long I don't have any patience or restraint left,” you said shamelessly, taking it upon yourself to pull him back down, crashing your lips back onto his. He laughed into the kiss, eagerly reciprocating. As much as he enjoyed teasing you, he was no less desperate. This time, he hooked his fingers into your clothes. “Let’s remove these then, shall we?” He whispered against your skin, already pulling the layers of fabric away from your body to reveal your skin to his hungry eyes. He drank in the sight, marveling at every curve and committing it to memory.

“You're so perfect,” he murmured, more to himself than directly to you.

You tugged on the armor he still donned. “This is hardly fair,” you stated. “That I’m the only one naked.”

He chuckled. “You're right, so why don't I fix that?” He climbed from the bed and stripped himself of both armor and undergarments before resuming his position on top of you. “Better?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

You didn't even hear him, too busy admiring the physique he had surely worked hard on. Your gaze trailed from his solid shoulders to his defined chest and abs, and then it drifted even further to see his hard cock, swollen and dripping with precum.

“It’s rude to stare, you know. But if it’s you I guess I’ll make an exception.”

Before you could retort, his head swept downwards, his lips wrapping around your nipple and his tongue swirling around the bud, sucking lightly. Whatever you were going to say died in your throat, an unbidden moan escaping in its place. You felt the huff he exhaled from his nose, but he remained intent on his ministrations, using his other hand to give the same treatment to the other bud, tweaking it between his thumb and forefinger. You wound your hand through his silky hair, crying out his name and pulling him closer. Your heavy breathing and soft moans spurred him on as he switched sides, his teeth occasionally grazing the delicate skin in his fervor. Your poor, neglected cunt twitched desperately around nothing, aching to be filled. You clenched your thighs together, a pitiful attempt to produce even a little friction, a little relief.

With a soft pop, Sylus released your nipple, blowing cool air onto the wet skin. You shuddered, a soft sigh passing through your kiss-swollen lips. He began to trail open mouthed kisses down your torso, slowly, methodically, savoring the taste of your skin. Only when his head was snugly between your thighs did he look up at you, crimson eyes boring into yours. “Is this okay? Can I keep going?”

You didn't even think twice before giving him an eager nod of approval. A chaste kiss to your dripping folds was all the warning you were given before Sylus dropped all pretense of having any self control. He wrapped his arms around your thighs, gripping them tightly and preventing you from even attempting to close your legs. He licked a broad stripe from your clenching hole to your clit, which he eagerly laved in attention.

“Sy!” you squealed, writhing with pleasure in his iron hold, unable to move away from the overwhelming ecstasy. He moaned into your hot cunt, the vibrations adding to the stimulation. He released one of your legs to push a finger into you, curling the digit and providing the delicious friction you had been craving. He grew more and more fervent in his ministrations, his own hips grinding onto the bed. “Cum for me,” he growled, voice muffled from between your legs as he added another finger. “Give me everything.” With every lap and suck of his tongue and with every curl of his fingers you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You were panting for air, nearly coming apart at the seams as Sylus brought you right to heaven’s doorstep with just his sinful mouth and hand. WIth a final suck on your clit, you were pushed over the edge, your vision going white as you called his name.

Sylus pulled his fingers out slowly and repositioned himself on top of you. He pressed his fingers to your lips, urging you to part them. You obliged, taking them into your mouth and sucking your own juices off of his fingers as you watched him slowly lick his bottom lip. Satisfied, he freed his fingers from your mouth, using the same hand to slowly stroke his cock. He teased your entrance with the head, muttering a small curse under his breath when he finally pushed forwards. The burn of the stretch was almost completely overshadowed by the sheer euphoria he was making you feel. He filled you so fully you could practically feel him in your throat.

He groaned as soon as his hips were flush with yours, his cock fully sheathed inside you. “You feel so fucking good, sweetie,” he rasped, trying to get ahold of himself to allow you however much time you needed to adjust to his size, but that was easier said than done. The walls of your pussy were clamping down on him and he hadn't even started moving yet. At this rate, he would cum before he got the chance to feel your sweet cunt spasm around him as he brought you to another orgasm. 

He mouthed at your neck and collarbones as he waited for any indication from you that you were ready for more. The very second that your plea hit his ears, he was pulling out almost completely just to thrust back into you all at once. You gasped, raking your nails down his back.

He set a brutal pace and you were certain he’d have scratch marks down his muscled back, not that he cared. As far as Sylus was concerned, those scratches marked him as yours. The way you said his name like a mantra spurred him on further, and he found himself reaching down to thumb your clit.

“Wait, Sy—ah—it’s too much—!” You wailed, tears beginning to well up in the corners of your eyes from the intense pleasure.

“You can take it. I know you can, so be a good girl and cum on my cock.” His voice was strained, arousal making it hard to even think straight, much less speak.

Your back was arching off the bed, your peak so close you felt like you might shatter at any moment. “You're so pretty,” Sylus panted from above you. “Even prettier when you're underneath me like this.” If his face and stuttering hips were any indication, he was just as close as you were. And you were just as enamoured with him as he was with you. His silky silver hair was unkempt, lips parted and gasping for air with each thrust into your sopping cunt.

When it finally hit you, all you could manage to do was cry out his name, your poor abused cunny spasming around his hard length. Your own pleasure was all it took for Sylus’ to overtake him. He buried himself to the hilt, hands gripping your hips with a bruising strength, holding you in place as he filled you with hot spurts of cum. 

Spent, he collapsed on top of you, head nestled on your breasts and the both of you still breathing heavily. From over his shoulder, you could see the emperor seething from where he was still restrained in the chair. You noticed with wicked amusement that, as angry as he was, he was still aroused, the tent in his robes giving him away.

“What’s so funny?” Asked Sylus, tilting his head to look up at you.

“Nothing,” you answered lightly.

“I don't believe that for one second,” he mumbled into your skin. “Just as long as it’s not me you're laughing at.” He pushed himself up to pull out of you slowly, his cum dripping from your slit. He stared for a beat too long, captivated at the sight of himself leaking out of you. Giving no mind to the mess, he pulled you into his arms, your back flush to his chest, safe against him like it should have always been. As he situated himself, he briefly glanced at the emperor, noticing exactly what had probably amused you so much. He laughed. A real, true laugh. “That’s pathetic,” he scoffed.

Your lover settled behind you, stroking your skin gently. As much as he wanted to fall asleep with you, there were many things to be handled before he could relax. The highest priority of which was right there in the room with the two of you.

------------

When you woke, you were still warm and snug in your husband’s arms. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest from behind you. Still asleep. You knew firsthand how seriously he took his responsibilities as emperor, staying up well into the night pouring over documents and ensuring his people were taken care of. Not wanting to disturb his much-needed rest, you intended to go back to sleep, but a certain little one had other plans. You rested a hand on top of your rounded belly, the kicks more persistent than usual. Sylus, the light sleeper that he was, must have noticed your stirring.

“Good morning,” he mumbled, voice groggy with sleep and more gravelly than usual. 

You turned slightly to look at him and raised a hand to his cheek. You didn’t think you'd ever get used to the sight of his handsome face first thing in the morning. “Morning,” you responded with a broad grin. You took his hand in yours, placing it where yours had been just moments prior. “Little one is active this morning,” you said. Sylus chuckled when he felt it under his palms, his eyes softer than even the finest of silks.

In true sibling fashion, you couldn’t give just one your attention. You heard the little patter of bare feet seconds before the bedroom door was pushed open, your 3 year old daughter rushing into the room. Mama! Papa!” She giggled, pulling herself up the foot of the bed. 

“Well, good morning, sweetheart,” said Sylus, sitting up to pull her onto his lap. You sat up as well, leaning over as best you could to kiss her chubby little cheek.

It was a peaceful morning, spent mostly sitting in bed and entertaining your daughter. But duty will always call, and Sylus eventually had to leave to meet with his advisors. They were a tedious affair, especially since Caleb no longer attended. He had chosen to remain in the military and had since been given another assignment. Most of the time, the advisors didn’t dare question Sylus’ choices, but it seemed that today one of them had a death wish.

“There is still the matter of heirs. Have you considered reinstating the imperial harem, Your Majesty?” One of them asked timidly. 

The glare Sylus fixed upon him was almost enough to convince him to resign his position right then and there just to escape the red eyes that promised unimaginable pain if he failed to tread lightly.

“And why would I do such a thing?” Sylus asked coldly. “Is Her Majesty the Empress not good enough for you?” 

“No! No, of course that’s not what I meant! I just—” he faltered under the stare of not just Sylus but the two intimidating masked men that stood on either side of his chair. 

“You just what?” Pressed Sylus, his eyes narrowing into slits.

“Well, Her Majesty has only provided you with a daughter, so there is concern for the security of the lineage.”

Sylus snarled at the careless comment. “I have no intention of ever bedding a woman that isn’t my wife. Who, since you’re clearly so concerned about it, is carrying our second child. And if you ever speak about my wife or daughter like that ever again, I’ll have your head, do you understand?”

The color drained from the advisor’s face. He nodded, but didn’t dare risk speaking again.

“Good. Then we’re done here.”

the purring stopped abruptly. a low, guttural rumble started deep in his chest, a sound so different it made you freeze. you looked up. his head was lifted, his neck stretched taut. his nostrils flared wide, pulling in the air around you with sharp, audible sniffs. the warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a sharp, possessive intensity.

"you smell different," he growled. the sound was not friendly. it was the grating of stone, a warning. "the forest air on you is tainted. you smell of smoke. of crowded streets. of… another human. a man."

you slowly put your watering can down, the wooden handle suddenly feeling unsteady in your grip, but not afraid.

sylus, for as long as you've known of his presence around, has never harmed you. there was no reason for you to be afraid

"sylus, it's nothing. i had to go to the town market today. you know i go sometimes. the streets were just very crowded, that's all."

"who." the word was not a question. it was a command, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to tremble in response. a wisp of dark smoke, smelling of ozone and heated rock, curled from one of his nostrils.

your mind raced, trying to place the source of his agitation. "it was no one important! just… the baker's son, i think. his name is leo. i was turning a corner and he was carrying a big sack of flour. we just bumped into each other, that's all. it was an accident. he was kind about it and helped me steady myself."

the moment the name—leo—left your lips, sylus went completely rigid.

the low rumble in his chest erupted into a full, snarling growl that echoed through the clearing, sending birds scattering from the trees. "leo," he repeated, the name a foul, venomous thing on his tongue. smoke now poured freely from his nostrils, clouding the air between you with the scent of his agitation. "a… baker." he said the word with utter contempt, as if describing something weak and worthless. his eyes burned with a fire you had never seen directed at you before. it was jealousy, raw and primal.

before you could say another word to soothe him, he moved. with a powerful surge of coiled muscle, he launched himself into the sky. the beat of his vast, leathery wings was a thunderclap that whipped your hair and clothes violently. you stood there, stunned, watching his dark form disappear above the dense green canopy.

he was back within minutes, a terrifyingly swift hunter.

with a heavy thud that shook the cottage, he landed in the clearing. clutched in his formidable claws was the carcass of a massive, silver-furred stag. it was a magnificent beast, one that would have taken a party of the kingdom's best hunters days to track and great courage to bring down. he dropped it at your feet with a definitive, heavy thump, his chest puffed out, his obsidian scales gleaming with pride.

"see?" he declared, his voice a deep, proud rumble. he nudged the massive kill towards you with his snout, his eyes fixed on yours. "the finest meat in the forest. fresh. strong. full of life. i caught it for you. does your… baker… bring you such sustenance? can he provide the heart of the wild for you? can his soft, flour-dusted hands hunt and provide? or does he only offer you… weak grains and baked air?"

you stared at the stag, then back at his fiercely proud and deeply worried face.

a slow, aching understanding dawned.

this wasn't just about a strange scent. this was about territory. about possession. in his draconic mind, he saw a rival, a challenger for your attention, and he was trying to prove his superiority in the only way he knew how.

"sylus," you began, your voice gentle but firm. you crossed your arms over your chest. "that is a very impressive catch. and it is sweet of you to think of me. but i cannot eat an entire stag by myself. and i cannot make a new dress from rabbit fur or stag hide."

he blinked his large, intelligent eyes, the fire in them dimming to a confused smolder.

"i have to go to town sometimes," you continued, stepping a little closer, though the heat from his agitated body was intense. "it is not a choice. i need to buy cloth and needles and thread. i need soap and salt and things you cannot easily find in the forest. i am a human, and i live in a human world part of the time. when i am there, i might bump into people. it does not mean anything. leo is just a man who sells bread. that is all he is. i think that was the first time ive ever seen him"

he was quiet for a long moment, processing your words. the proud, rigid set of his shoulders slumped slightly.

the aggressive puff of his chest deflated. he looked from your face to the massive stag, then back to you, and let out a low, chuffing sound. he nudged the stag again, almost petulantly.

"but… my meat is better," he mumbled, his deep voice now a soft, rumbling plea. "it is stronger. better for you."

so clearly... he was still having lingering jealousy coursing through his veins.

later, as the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, you were admiring the soft, ethereal glow of the moon-petal flowers.

sylus watched you for a long time, his massive head tilted. then, he turned and, with astonishing delicacy, used the very tip of his wing to sweep a pile of his treasure towards you.

it was not just gold and gems, though there were glittering coins and deep green emeralds. there were rare, beautiful objects he had clearly collected over centuries: a perfectly preserved fossil of a prehistoric fern, a geode split open to reveal a stunning galaxy of violet amethyst crystals, a necklace woven from what looked like strands of starlight and one of his own, smaller, discarded scales.

all items that a jewel collector or archaeologist would faint at the sight of

he nudged the geode towards you with his nose. "this one," he rumbled, his voice low and intent. "it holds the memory of the earth's first breath. it is ancient and powerful."

his gaze was unwavering, filled with a desperate earnestness. "these are not just things. they are pieces of my hoard. my… heart. can your baker offer you the secrets of the world? can he give you a piece of his soul? can he show you the history locked in stone?"

ah... still having a one-sided beef with the baker.

he lowered his great head until his warm, scaled forehead was gently pressing against your chest. the growl was gone, replaced by a deep, thrumming vibration that felt like a plea resonating deep within your own bones. the scent of smoke was gone, replaced by the clean, sharp scent of the forest at night.

"stay here, little one," he whispered, the sound so quiet it was almost carried away by the breeze. "with me. my forest is your forest. my treasure is your treasure. my protection is yours. i can keep you safe. i can give you wonders. choose my fire. please. do not… do not seek warmth from his feeble, mortal hearth."

and in that moment, you saw it all. the jealousy, the grand displays of hunting and wealth, the desperate hints. it wasn't the aggression of a monster.

it was the fear of a lonely, ancient creature who had finally found something precious, something he considered his, and was terrified to the core of losing it to another. he was trying to prove he was the better provider, the better protector, in the only language a dragon knew.

you reached up and wrapped your arms as far as you could around the thick base of his neck, burying your face in the warm, smooth scales. "silly dragon," you murmured, your voice muffled against him. "your meat is the best. your treasures are the most beautiful. and your fire is the warmest thing i have ever known. i come back to you, don't i? i always come back."

he let out a long, shuddering sigh, a hot breath that stirred your hair. he leaned into your touch, his massive body relaxing, the tension finally bleeding away. he might not fully understand your human world, but he understood your touch, your scent, and your promise to return.

"...i am also certain i am capable of creating better creations than that measly mortal human baker."

"have you ever even tried making bread, oh-mighty-dragon?"

"... no but if it shall make you happy, i shall learn. nothing a human can do i cannot."

In response, he kisses you harder before wrapping his arms around your back, then pushing you forward and pinning you down with his heavy weight.

Of course, since it's Caleb, it only feels like a soft, warm, giant teddy bear on top of you. It's always comforting. There are plenty of times when Caleb would just lie on top of you, just to be cuddled, and you'll always welcome him.

Like always, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck and your fingers combed through his hair.

He takes a moment to latch his mouth onto your neck and suck on your skin to get some more pretty noises out of you, but you muffle all your cries by sinking your teeth on the spot between his neck and left shoulder.

Surprised, Caleb pulls back from your neck to let out a grunt. He then grinds his hips hard against yours while his eyelids lower to partly cover his darkened, lust-filled gaze— not that you could see it, as the lack of light in the tent makes it impossible to see anything.

You don't even realize that Caleb is looking at you as if he's about to devour you.

That's why, when he parted your legs and started to rut into you, even with your clothes in the way, you failed to suppress your groans, overwhelmed with the euphoric sensation caused by the friction between your bodies.

Using one hand, Caleb was quick to cover your mouth to prevent any people nearby to hear the noises meant only for his ears, yet he doesn't stop thrusting his hips.

He couldn't.

You feel so, so good.

There's no way he'd stop now. His body is moving on its own, going after what it craves the most. He could feel his pants becoming painfully tight and wet with pre-cum.

He needed more.

"Can I.... please...."

His hot breath against your ear as he pleads quietly for you causes your insides to clench with arousal.

You gave a silent response of approval by lowering your hands down to his pants to undo its button and zipper, then pushing it down to encourage him to remove it. You then got rid of your shorts soon after.

Caleb quickly catches on and kicks his pants off him, then he immediately returns to humping you as if he's in heat. Too eager to rub his cock against your damped panty, he'd momentarily forgotten about his boxers that's restraining his twitching shaft.

"So...goood...."

His boxers didn't stay for long as it became uncomfortably wet, and so he finally discards it. Then, Caleb lightly presses the tip of his cock against your underwear, right where your soaked hole is being hidden.

"Caleb...!"

"Sshhh..." He drops a tender kiss on your lips. "Not so loud."

But he ignores his own words once he's inside you.

He started off slowly, being careful in not making any suspicious noises that would attract attention.

You did your best to keep your moans as quiet gasps that could be muffled by the natural noises of nature all around you.

Caleb, however, couldn't do much about the sound of his hips crashing against yours as he pounds into you once he's lost control of his pace, and placing his mouth on your breasts didn't do a good at suppressing his groans.

Had you been on a bed, it would have been creaking loudly, just like how it does back in your place and his.

Luckily, the tent's floor, even though it's not as comfortable, spares you from any unnecessary noises— more than the ones that your bodies are making, anyway.

Trying to keep quiet had reached its hardest level as you feel yourself reaching your climax. Your toes curled and your nails sank on Caleb's back as he goes even harder and deeper, shaking your entire body at each thrust.

Being quiet was no longer in his mind.

All he was focused on was chasing after his high. He needed to cum now, and inside of you. Every drop of it in you.

His parted lips calls out your name in the middle of his deep moans, and then his cock shoots out his essence as it was in the deepest part of your womb. Caleb's body stiffens and his weight becomes heavier for just a second while his muscles relaxes.

Your own release came around the same moment, though everything that squirted out of you had been partly blocked by his cock that remained inside you.

The two of you are breathing heavily as your hearts pound in the same beat. Drops of sweat clung to your skins, and the tent's air had gotten quite...lewd.

"You're awful at being quiet."

Your brows furrowed at his playful comment. "Me?! You're the one who—" His lips interrupts you from finishing your sentence. "Caleb, you dumm—"

"So loud, sheesh. Others are going to hear you."

Just for fun, one of your hand traveled to his cock, which was still sensitive. One tight stroke and a loud gasp falls out of his lips.

"Who's the loud one again?"

Your smirk was shortlived as Caleb's fingers danced their way between your thighs.

Rose~ Fragrant, decadent, and faintly salted. Lingers on your lips like art.

The afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Rafayel’s seaside home, casting a warm, golden glow across the open living space. You lounged sprawled out on the plush couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phone while waiting for him to return from whatever mysterious errand had pulled him away. The house lay in quiet, broken only by the distant crash of waves against the shore, and as boredom settled in, a faint hunger pang began to stir within you.

Your stomach let out a low rumble, prompting you to push yourself up and pad softly toward the kitchen in search of a quick snack. The space bore a captivating blend of contrasts– sleek modern lines softened by artistic chaos. Dried paint splatters scattered across the marble counters, brushes soaking in jars of murky water, and shelves overflowing with exotic ingredients that carried the sharp scents of citrus and sea salt.

Your gaze was drawn to a bowl of unusual fruit– plump, indigo-skinned orbs that glistened as if freshly kissed by ocean spray. Their aroma coaxed intoxicating, a heady mix of sweetness and floral notes that made your mouth water. Curiosity got the better of you; you plucked one up and sank your teeth into its juicy flesh. A burst of syrupy nectar exploded across your tongue, addictive in its richness with an underlying tang of salt that danced on your palate. Without a second thought, you devoured the rest, wiping the sticky juice from your chin and idly wondering what exotic Lemurian import this might be– one of Rafayel's eccentric treasures, no doubt.

Satisfied for the moment, you returned to the couch and settled back in. Minutes passed in lazy quiet, but then something began to change, a subtle shift rippling through your body.

A warm heat bloomed low in your belly, starting slow before spreading outward like molten gold coursing through your veins. Your skin prickled with heightened sensitivity, your breaths coming quicker and shallower. Your breasts felt unusually heavy and tender, almost swollen with an insistent ache, and without realizing it, your thighs pressed together in a futile attempt to quell the growing need. Even the soft brush of fabric against your nipples elicited a sharp gasp– they were far too sensitive, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through you. Desperate for relief, you rubbed at them through your shirt, but the friction only intensified the throbbing desire, causing your hips to buck involuntarily against the edge of the couch.

A soft, involuntary whimper escaped your lips just as the front door clicked open.

Rafayel stepped inside, his violet hair tousled by the sea breeze, a bag casually slung over one shoulder. He froze in place, his eyes widening in surprise before narrowing into a gaze that blended amusement with raw hunger. "Well, well," he drawled, his voice like velvet scraped over gravel as he dropped the bag with a heavy thud. "What do we have here? Couldn't wait for me to get back, cutie?"

You attempted to sit up straight, but your limbs felt heavy and dopey, like they were weighed down by warm syrup. "Raf... the fruit..." you managed to gasp, your voice cracking as another wave of intense heat surged through you. The words trailed off into a helpless moan, your hands moving of their own accord in a frantic bid for more.

He tsked softly, striding across the room with a predatory grace that made your pulse race. "Ah, the Lemurian pearl fruit," he murmured, crouching down beside you on the couch. "The one I specifically warned you wasn't for casual snacking." His smile curved slowly, sharp and teasing. "And now look at you– your skin glowing with that irresistible flush, your body dripping with need, begging for release without even fully understanding what it craves."

"Shut up," you whispered, though your glare lacked any real conviction, weakened by the overwhelming sensations.

He chuckled low in his throat, kneeling fully now as his fingers lightly brushed along your thigh, sending electric sparks racing through your nerves. "Aww, poor thing. You can barely form words." His tone shifted into a soothing purr. "You want my help, don't you? I know exactly how to ease this– how to make it all better."

Helpless against the tide of desire, you nodded eagerly. "Please..."

His grin widened, wolfish and strikingly beautiful. "Of course, cutie."

With deliberate care, he peeled your shirt upward, exposing your flushed skin and the swollen fullness of your breasts. They ached with a heavy tenderness, your nipples taut and begging for attention. "Gods, just look at these," he murmured, his voice turning reverent as his thumbs circled them in slow, teasing strokes. The touch sat almost gentle at first, but then his mouth descended– his hot tongue flicking over one sensitive peak, then the other. You arched into him with a throaty moan, his lips working you in languid, sucking pulls that momentarily eased the pressure only to stoke the fire deeper within.

"Already so sweet," he murmured against your skin, switching sides to suck harder, his tongue tracing intricate patterns as if he were painting a masterpiece on your body. His hands squeezed and rolled your breasts, the rough calluses from his canvas work providing delicious friction that made fresh slickness flood between your thighs.

"Raf... lower, please," you pleaded, your voice ragged with need.

He lifted his head, his mouth glistening and his eyes dark with hazy desire. "Such a demanding thing," he said softly, his voice thick with arousal. "But you're absolutely right, cutie. You need the full cure to satisfy this hunger."

He slid your pants down and off with ease, gently spreading your thighs wide. The cool air kissed your soaked, aching folds, drawing a hum of amusement from him. "Oh, you're absolutely drenched," he observed, his fingers gliding through your slick arousal before his mouth took their place. The first long lick stole your breath entirely. He devoured you like a man starved, groaning deeply as he lapped at your essence, his tongue swirling deliberate circles around your clit before plunging deeper inside. His fingers soon joined, slipping into your heat and curling slowly, expertly hitting that perfect spot until your entire body quivered on the edge.

You came undone quickly, crying out as waves of pleasure crashed over you, but the relief ran fleeting– the fever only intensified, spiking higher than before. "It's not... enough," you gasped, your hands reaching desperately for him.

"I know," he replied, his smirk returning but softened by understanding. "The fruit demands a complete harvest to be sated."

He stripped off his clothes swiftly, his skin glowing in the warm amber light, his cock flushed, hard, and already dripping with anticipation. Positioning himself between your thighs, he ground against your slick folds, the swollen head dragging teasingly over your clit. You whimpered trying to angle him in. He tsked softly as his hands returned to your breasts, kneading them with purposeful intent, his thumbs teasing the swollen peaks until they throbbed under his touch.

"Feel that?" he growled, his voice rough with passion. "That's me fixing the mess you made– and claiming what's mine."

Then he pushed inside you– slowly, inch by tantalizing inch– until he was buried deep, both of you gasping at the exquisite fullness. He groaned as his thrusts began measured and sensual, his body undulating like the rhythm of the tide, each roll of his hips sending pleasurable ripples cascading through you. His hands continued massaging your breasts with firm squeezes until milk began to bead at your nipples, the built-up pressure finally breaking in warm, trickling drops that slid down your skin.

His eyes widened, pupils dilating with awe and lust. "Oh, darling," he breathed, lowering his mouth without hesitation.

He licked up the first trail with a low, fractured groan. "Sweet as honeyed salt– utterly divine." Then he latched on, sucking deeply and drawing the milk into his mouth in languid, rhythmic pulls while his hips maintained their steady thrusts, driving deeper and slower. The dual sensations melted your senses into oblivion– his thick cock filling you completely, stretching you with every movement, while his mouth drank from you hungrily, his tongue circling your nipple in ways that made you clench tightly around him.

"Fuck," he moaned against your skin, the vibration adding to the ecstasy. "You taste like you were crafted just to nourish me– to feed my every desire."

You threaded your fingers through his violet hair, holding him close as he switched to the other side, sucking greedily while milk coated his lips and dripped down his chin. He wiped it away with his thumb, smearing it across your nipple before licking it clean once more, his actions lazy yet filled with reverent devotion.

He took his time, refusing to rush; each thrust hammered a deliberate stroke of passion, each suck a decadent sin that built the tension higher. The room filled with the mingled scents of salt and sweetness, of sweat-slicked bodies and the faint brine of sea air wafting in. Milk pooled on your sternum, sticky and warm, and his tongue eagerly followed its path until his mouth crashed against yours in a heated kiss.

"More, Raf... please, I need more," you panted, your body aching for release.

He obliged without question, one hand kneading both breasts at once, coaxing steady streams of milk that he lapped up between his own breathless moans. The sounds of his pleasure– soft, desperate, and utterly worshipful– intertwined with the rhythmic slap of his hips against yours. "You're a work of art," he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion. "Every pulse of your body, every drop you give– it's all mine to paint with, to cherish."

You shattered around him in climax, milk spilling freely as your body trembled in ecstasy. He groaned deeply, thrusting deep one final time as he came, spilling hot and abundant inside you, his hips jerking in sync with the lingering waves of your shared release.

When he finally stilled, his mouth lingered at your chest, lapping up the remaining residue with small, absentminded strokes, as if he couldn't bear to stop tasting you. Then he looked up, his expression sated and dreamy, with milk still glistening on his lips.

"See?" he said softly, a hint of teasing in his tone. "Told you I could help. I hope you learned your lesson."

You laughed weakly, utterly spent, your head lolling back against the cushions. "You're impossible."

He grinned, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your thigh. "You say that now. Just wait until I paint you like this– capturing every exquisite detail."

You snorted in amusement, but his gaze turned serious, a perfect blend of artist and lover, as he gathered a lingering droplet of milk on his fingertip and studied how it gleamed in the fading light. "Lemurian pearl," he mused quietly. "It transforms the body into a true masterpiece." He brought the finger to your lips, and you tasted it once more– sweet, strange, and undeniably a part of you.

Leaning in, he kissed you slowly and deeply, murmuring against your mouth, "Next time, we'll share it properly– together from the start."

Outside, the sea continued its eternal murmur against the rocks, steady as a heartbeat. The fever had finally faded, but his touch remained– warm like sunlight on water, sticky and shimmering, an imprint impossible to forget.

Condensed~ Thick, slow, clings to the tongue. Too sweet to be innocent.

The hospital lights buzzed faintly yet insistently, their hum seeping deep into Zayne's skull as he rubbed his temples in weary frustration. Another endless shift weighed down on him like a slab of unyielding stone pressing against his shoulders, while his muscles remained corded and tight from hours spent hunched over medical charts and monitoring fragile pulses.

For weeks now, exhaustion had followed him like a loyal shadow, refusing to let go. Each morning, he awoke to sheets drenched in sweat that clung to his skin in a cold, sticky embrace. His heart raced as though he had been pursued through fog-shrouded paths he could barely remember, and a faint, lingering sweetness coated his flesh– like the whisper of a forgotten lover that no amount of scrubbing could erase.

He attributed it all to the relentless strain of his work, or perhaps a side effect from the new trial medications he was testing. Yet the weariness carved deeper into him with every passing day, hollowing out his spirit while igniting a strange, insistent ache for the velvet embrace of sleep. It pulled at his very core, like an unmet hunger gnawing from within.

That night, he placed a small recorder on the nightstand, its red light winking in the dim room like a vigilant sentinel ready to capture whatever phantom haunted his rest. If it turned out to be night terrors or some neurological glitch twisting his nerves, he intended to record it and dissect it mercilessly under the harsh light of day.

Sliding into bed, he felt the cool linens offer a brief moment of soothing relief, gliding over his fevered skin like a gentle caress. Overtly sensitive, his nipples hardened from the chill as he settled in, and sleep overtook him more swiftly than he had anticipated. The world blurred into an inky softness, his body surrendering to the abyss with a soft sigh that echoed like an unspoken invitation. His hips shifted subtly, as if beckoning the invisible presence lurking nearby.

As if beckoning you.

You, who dwelled in the veil between worlds– part ethereal spirit, part insatiable shade– were drawn to him irresistibly, like iron filings to a powerful magnet. The boundary between realms always thinned to a delicate silk at the edge of dusk, allowing you to slip through in a shiver of dark mist that coalesced within his chamber.

The air grew colder in your presence, your essence vibrating with a low, magnetic pull that stirred the atmosphere and raised gooseflesh along his bare arms. Zayne's chest rose and fell in a steady, rhythmic cadence, his dark strands of hair scattered across the pillow like spilled secrets on pale satin sheets. His lips parted in a moment of unguarded vulnerability, igniting your deep-seated craving– not for the crimson rush of his lifeblood, but for the vital warmth that anchored your tenuous existence in this realm.

His essence, spilled hot and vital, was the "milk" that sustained your grip on this world, intoxicating like the nectar of a forbidden flower. Your core fluttered with emptiness and need, wetness gathering in warm beads between your thighs as anticipation built.

With a subtle command, the linens yielded to your will, drawing down slowly so you could savor the whisper of fabric gliding over his skin. The cool kiss of night air traced chills across his exposed form, causing him to tremble slightly as prickles rose on his flesh. The sharp tang of his sweat sharpened in the air, heightening your senses.

His shirt rode up gradually, revealing the firm ridges of his abdomen where muscles tightened under the caress of the open air. Descending closer, you brushed your lips against his throat, sucking softly to taste the salt laced with underlying heat and that faint sweetness from his core. His life force called to you like shadowed honey, making your center pulse even more fiercely as slick warmth trickled down your inner thighs.

He groaned low in his throat, his pelvis tilting instinctively in response. You could feel him swelling beneath the fabric, the musky warmth of his arousal flooding your senses and making your mouth water with primal urgency.

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his pants, pulling them down slowly to relish the drag over his hips. His length sprang free– heavy, flushed, with veins throbbing like hidden rivers beneath the taut skin. A glistening pearl of precum gleamed at the crown like forbidden dew, the sight clenching your core and causing wetness to seep between your legs in warm, eager floods.

The air thickened with heat, the scents of salt and skin mingling until they felt almost tangible, something you could inhale deeply. Hunger sharpened your every movement; you hummed deeper, the vibration rippling through him until his body arched in instinctive reply.

Moving lower, your tongue traced a slow, deliberate path up his shaft until the bright taste of salt and heat filled your mouth, alive and pulsing. His hips jerked upward, a rough, guttural sound escaping his chest– raw and heavy, still half-lost in dreams.

He stirred faintly. "Wha…?" The word emerged blurred, caught between dream and reality, his fingers flexing into the sheets more as a reflex than a conscious choice. You hummed louder, the sound enveloping him like a low current that pulled him deeper under. His body betrayed any resistance– hips twitching again, another drop of precum gathering and slicking your lips with its salty heat.

Your tongue coiled around the sensitive crown, gently lapping at the steady leak that followed, savoring the essence of his skin and slumber. His hands clutched the linens tighter, knuckles paling as you took him deeper into your mouth. The heat of his cock filled you completely, sliding across your tongue and pulsing like a steady drumbeat. The back of your throat tightened as you swallowed around him, pleasure blurring into a deep, insistent ache.

He was teetering on the edge now– you could sense it in the swelling of his shaft and the unsteady rhythm of his breathing. "Please…" The word escaped as a whisper, an unwitting offering that coiled warmly in your belly. You hummed again, more intensely this time, causing his body to bow upward from the bed in response.

His release surged into your mouth in warm, rhythmic waves– sweet and saline, flooding your senses. You drank it down greedily until the world around you seemed to brighten with renewed color. What overflowed past your lips trailed down your chin, sticky and vibrant with life. You continued licking him clean until he shuddered beneath you, his body trembling as if gripped by a sudden fever.

Yet your craving only deepened, transforming into something more feral and consuming. You yearned for him entirely– his heat buried deep inside you, his heartbeat echoing against yours. The bond thrummed through your veins like fire racing along a wire.

Rising up, you allowed the shadows to peel away from your form until you became solid and tangible. With a sigh of eager anticipation, you straddled him, his cock still rigid and unyielding from the grip of the dream. You pressed it against your glistening folds, the contact eliciting a moan that nearly disrupted the hypnotic hum emanating from you. Your clit glided along his length in a slick, teasing slide that made your breath hitch and your inner walls throb with desperate need for more.

Zayne stirred once more, his eyes fluttering erratically but never fully opening. His hands instinctively found your hips and gripped them firmly, nails digging into the softness that mimicked skin. A low growl rumbled in his throat with each skim of your wet cunt over him.

Guiding him carefully, you sank down onto him, the stretch filling you slowly and completely as heat enveloped heat. Each inch of his cock seared and soothed you simultaneously, your eyes closing in bliss as you maintained the hum, staving off the sudden orgasm that threatened to crash over you just from the sensation of his girth stretching you wide.

You moaned softly as you began to rock against him in a rhythm as ancient as instinct itself. His brows furrowed, a quiet sound breaking from his lips in response. Circling your hips in slow, deep motions, you blurred the edges of the dream with reality.

He moved with you, suspended between sleep and wakefulness, his moans rising in quiet, desperate waves that fueled your own desire. You bit your lip to suppress a cry, channeling the sound into another hum. The recorder's red light blinked steadily, pulsing in time with the connection binding you both.

The world contracted to nothing but touch and sound– his body meeting yours repeatedly, sweat beading and mingling to slick every movement. Your nails dragged down his stomach, leaving shallow trails of heat that made him arch into you, the bed groaning under the building rhythm.

"More." The word escaped him as barely a breath, his fingers digging deeper into your hips and leaving tiny crescent marks that stung with a blooming pleasure. You leaned down to bite his shoulder, tasting the faint copper of his skin. He gasped sharply, then thrust harder, his mouth finding your throat where his teeth grazed and nipped in return.

You trembled, your walls tightening around him as you chased the precipice. He followed suit, his movements growing rougher, his breath fracturing into grunts of raw exertion. You climaxed together in a shuddering release, his warmth flooding you until it overflowed, the air heavy with the mingled scents of salt and musk.

The bond sealed itself irrevocably in the darkness.

As dawn bled through the blinds in pale, sterile streaks, Zayne awoke tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, every muscle humming with an exhaustion that felt too sweet to be mere pain. Faint marks stippled his skin– half tender kisses, half subtle warnings– and his body ached with a lingering hunger for more.

Raking a hand through his disheveled hair, his fingers brushed the punctures on his shoulder, and he froze in realization. The scent clung to him persistently– sweet, metallic, faintly floral, like a solidified memory refusing to fade. On the nightstand, the recorder's light still flickered, its steady pulse syncing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He pressed play.

A low vibration filled the room: that same intimate hum, distant yet enveloping, rising and falling around a soft moan. Then his own voice emerged– raw and pleading. Come back.

The sound looped gently, as soft as breathing, blending seamlessly with the buzz of the lights overhead. He sat motionless, his pulse aligning with the rhythm, a small smile curving his lips.

By nightfall, he would lie down again beneath the watchful blink of the red light– eyes half-open, lips parted in silent invitation, ready to nourish the entity that thrived on him.

Ready for you.

Whole~ Rich and sun-warm. The taste of something wholesome gone wrong.

Willow Lane shimmered beneath the relentless sun– a polished postcard of suburban perfection. Manicured lawns hid the rot of unspoken desire. White picket fences stood guard like prison bars over every secret.

In this candy-coated cage of domesticity, you embodied the role of the dutiful spouse, methodically slicing lemons for iced tea that carried the bitter tang of endless, monotonous routine. Your husband had already departed for the office, his absence as predictable as the arrival of the morning newspaper. The oppressive heat pressed in close, causing sweat to bead along your skin like unspoken confessions yearning to escape, with your apron serving as a flimsy barrier against the day's insistent, clinging humidity.

The distinctive clink of glass bottles pierced the hazy afternoon like an irresistible summons.

Caleb strode up the walkway– ​the milkman in immaculate form– ​uniform starched to crisp perfection, sleeves rolled to reveal the corded muscles of forearms shaped by years of work. His navy cap sat at a rakish angle, hinting at just enough mischief to stir something primal and deep within you.

The carrier swung in his firm grip, the bottles frosted and weeping beads of condensation that marked his path through the heat. When he reached the porch, he tipped his cap in casual greeting, violet eyes catching the sunlight, boyish grin slicing through the heavy air like a clean blade– ​a promise of disruption.

“Morning, ma’am.” His voice flowed like warm honey over rough gravel– smooth, textured, deliberate. “I’ve got your delivery right here, fresh and ready.”

The screen door creaked open beneath the light pressure of your hand, a small invitation he accepted without hesitation. The scent of fresh milk followed him inside, mingling with the earthy heat of sun-warmed sweat until it filled the kitchen– ​an uninvited, exhilarating intrusion that sent a fine shiver through your core.

He set the carrier down on the counter with a solid thud. The bottles kept sweating, droplets sliding down to pool on the linoleum in slow, glistening puddles that mirrored the tension thickening the air.

Now he stood too close. His presence consumed the narrow room, waves of warmth rolling off his body. The cords of his forearms flexed as he steadied the load, muscles shifting under tanned skin like something barely leashed.

“It’s a scorching day out there,” he remarked casually.

But his gaze lingered– slow, deliberate– tracing the curve of your neck as a single droplet of sweat made its lazy descent, disappearing into the neckline of your dress. His eyes darkened just a fraction, the flicker of raw hunger breaking through the polite veneer.

“Absolutely burning,” you replied softly. Your voice carried an edge of anticipation as you reached for one of the bottles.

Your fingers brushed his in the brief exchange– ​a contact so fleeting yet electric it sent a current straight through you, kindling a fierce heat low in your belly. The kitchen seemed to shrink around you, the air thickening with unspoken possibilities.

In your distraction, the bottle slipped. It rolled across the counter, threatening disaster, but he caught it with swift precision– ​not before a splash of milk escaped, streaking white across the checkerboard tiles in wild, erratic lines.

“Steady now,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a lower, more intimate register– ​a teasing edge curling around each word. He stepped closer. The soft scuff of his boots on the floor made the air itself feel smaller, tighter, charged.

You backed into the counter, the hard edge pressing into your hips, a physical reminder of the boundary you were poised to break.

“We wouldn’t want to make too much of a mess of things, would we?”

But the mess already felt inevitable. The pull between you was magnetic– something you could neither deny nor resist. Your pulse raced wildly, a deeper heat blooming as the wrongness of it wrapped around you like the heavy summer air. You were painfully aware that nosy neighbors might glance through the open window at any second– ​Mrs. Henderson’s curtains likely twitching in her constant surveillance.

The thrill only tightened in your chest. The promise of daylight debauchery whispered of both ecstasy and exposure.

“Caleb,” you breathed, his name hanging between you– half warning, half invitation. Your body leaned toward him instinctively, already betraying you despite the risk hanging over you both.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a heartbeat.

His hand rose to your throat– firm, possessive, not cruel. His thumb brushed across the frantic flutter of your pulse, sending dizziness spinning through you.

“You’ve been watching me,” he said, his voice gone rough with desire. The polite facade of the milkman fractured, revealing the raw hunger beneath.

“Every morning– those hungry eyes of yours fixed on me like a secret you thought I couldn’t see. You really think I haven’t felt that heat burning into me?”

You swallowed hard against the pressure of his hand. The weight of it sharpened every nerve ending until your whole body vibrated with awareness. You arched toward him instinctively– ​a silent, helpless plea for more.

“I have no idea what you mean,” you lied.

The words came out thin, breathy, trembling– ​heavy with the want you couldn’t hide. The apron strings drew tight across your shifting body, each movement making you more aware of the counter biting into your back, the sticky humidity clinging to your skin, the slow, deliberate drip of milk from the bottle still in his other hand.

“Liar.”

He chuckled low, the sound dark and knowing, rumbling deep in his chest. Then his mouth was on yours– ​hot, demanding, the kiss breaking open every repressed craving you’d buried under polite restraint.

His tongue swept in boldly, tasting of mint and something wilder, more human. You moaned into it, hands fisting his shirt, dragging him closer until the full press of him left no space between you. The bottle slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the counter, milk spilling freely. It splashed through your apron, soaking the fabric and seeping into your dress, cool against fevered skin. The contrast made the heat surge even higher.

“Damn,” he growled against your mouth, pulling back just enough to see you– ​your lips swollen, dress clinging, breath shallow. His eyes had gone almost black, hunger laid bare.

With a quick motion, he tugged the apron loose and flung it aside.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and rough with want. “Drenched, desperate– your body practically begging for more.”

His hand slid downward with intent, cupping your breast through the damp cling of your dress. His thumb drew slow circles around your nipple– teasing at first, then pinching harder, coaxing it into a tight, aching peak that throbbed under his touch.

He kneaded deeper, palms rough and callused from work, the fabric growing nearly sheer beneath the milk’s cooling touch. The chill only sharpened the heat building inside you– an exquisite contradiction of temperature and want.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks with these perfect tits,” he murmured. His breath spilled hot against your skin as he nipped at your ear, teeth grazing the tender lobe just enough to send a violent shiver down your spine, pooling hot between your thighs.

Your knees faltered. You pressed your thighs together in instinctive search for friction, but it offered nothing– no relief, only the ache swelling deeper.

“Caleb, the window– ”

The words broke apart, breathy and tangled, half-plea, half-thrill, your mind flickering to the open curtains and unseen eyes beyond.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight through you. In one swift motion he spun you around, bending you over the counter, your skirt rucked up before you could think to protest. The linoleum shocked your palms with its chill; spilled milk made them slip as you braced yourself, pulse hammering.

Then came the metallic clink of his belt, the soft rustle of fabric, and the sudden scorch of his cock pressing against your thigh– rigid, hot, unyielding. You felt the slick drag of pre-cum painting warm trails across your skin, every brush a promise of what was coming.

“Let them spy if they dare,” he rumbled, the words vibrating against your back. “Let the whole goddamn street see what you really crave– what that perfect little housewife soul’s been begging for all along.”

His hand slid between your thighs with bold certainty, fingers finding the slick, aching heat waiting there. Your panties were already soaked– ​not from the spilled milk, but from the raw, gathering want that had been building since the moment he stepped through your door.

He tore the fabric aside in one rough motion. His fingers parted you slowly, deliberately, the tease bordering on torture. He traced your folds with maddening care before dipping in– ​shallow, taunting strokes that pulled a gasp from your throat.

“So fucking wet...just for me,” he murmured, his voice rough silk. “Your pussy dripping like it’s been waiting for this all morning.”

He pushed deeper, curling his fingers until they found that tender place inside you. His thumb worked lazy, precise circles around your clit, drawing out whimpers that slipped unbidden from your lips. You bucked against his hand, chasing every flick, every pulse of pressure.

The kitchen filled with the obscene rhythm of it– ​wet, hungry sounds that tangled with the risk of discovery, each one louder for being forbidden.

When he finally withdrew, you heard the wet pop as his fingers left you, followed by the low hum of approval as he brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean with slow appreciation, the sound alone enough to make your knees weaken.

“Sweet as fresh cream,” he said, voice thick and rough, satisfaction coating every word.

Then he pressed forward, lining himself against you. A heartbeat of stillness– ​and then one hard, fluid thrust drove him deep inside. The stretch burned in the most exquisite way, his cock thick and unrelenting, the ridges dragging along your inner walls until pleasure blurred into ache.

You cried out, the sound sharp and involuntary, echoing off the kitchen tile. He stilled, buried to the hilt, his hand sweeping over your back with unexpected gentleness. The rough drag of his calluses against your skin grounded you, anchoring the shock of bliss in something real.

“That’s it,” he groaned, deep and guttural, as his hand returned to your throat, pulling you up into a fierce, exposed arch, his lips brushing hot against your ear. “Take my cock like this– fully exposed to the world, your body surrendering to me without shame.”

He began slow.

Each retreat was a cruel tease, pulling almost free before driving back in, every return a possessive claim that sank deeper into your core.

The counter groaned beneath the force of your bodies. Milk splashed up your calves with every thrust, the sound of it mixing with the slick slap of skin. The world narrowed to heat and friction– his cock stretching you open, the sticky coolness of milk coating your legs, his hand at your throat tightening just enough to make every gasp precious and earned.

His other hand gripped your hip hard, dragging you back to meet him with perfect rhythm. The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the kitchen, loud enough to tempt the neighborhood’s ears if anyone dared to listen.

You were past caring. Your moans spilled unrestrained as he struck that perfect spot again and again, his chest flush against your back, sweat gluing you together in a slick, fevered seal. His breath seared your neck; his teeth caught the tender skin, then his tongue soothed it, tasting the salt and sin on your body.

“Feel that?” he panted, thrusting deep and staying there, hips grinding slow, tight circles that churned your insides and set every nerve sparking. “That’s me– owning every inch of this tight, greedy pussy of yours.”

The words hit like heatstroke. Then he moved faster, the rhythm breaking apart– rougher, hungrier, his voice splitting under it.

“I’m gonna brand you from the inside out,” he growled, the words a snarl against your ear. “Flood you like those bottles on the floor– fill you up till you’re dripping, marked as mine.”

The filthy promise tore the last of your restraint away. You clenched around him hard, your body milking him without mercy, pulse and heartbeat and motion all blurring together.

“You crave it, don’t you?” he rasped. “My cum– hot, thick, filling you up, staining you from the inside and leaking for hours.”

“Yes,” you gasped, the word breaking apart on your tongue as the intensity overwhelmed you.

The climax hit like heatstroke– sudden, blinding, all-consuming. It rolled through you in punishing waves, each one pulling tighter until your body broke around him. Your walls gripped and released, milking his cock in frantic, rhythmic pulses that dragged him deeper with every squeeze.

He chased you through it, thrusts turning rough and uneven, a guttural sound tearing from his chest. Then he broke– spilling into you in thick, filthy ropes, the heat of it flooding your core until you were stretched and overflowing.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. His breath came ragged against your shoulder, hot and uneven, chest heaving against your back. Then, slowly, he drew out of you. The loss burned. His cum followed in creamy, glistening trails that slid down your trembling thighs, mingling with the streaks of milk already slicking your skin.

When you turned to face him, your pulse still skittering, your dress clung wetly to every curve. You were flushed, disheveled, shining under the kitchen light– ​a perfect ruin.

He adjusted his cap with lazy precision, composure returning like armor. Then, with that same unhurried confidence, he reached out, his thumb sliding beneath your chin to catch a bead of milk and sweat where they met. He brought it to your lips.

You parted them willingly. His thumb slipped inside, and you sucked it clean, slow and shameless. The taste– salt, cream, sin– lingered on your tongue.

His smile deepened, predator’s edge wrapped in charm. Satisfaction radiated off him, quiet and dangerous, as though the act itself had restored something essential.

“Tomorrow. Same time.”

His voice carried that blend of command and promise as he tipped the brim of his cap.

You nodded, still dazed, your breath shallow in the heavy air. “Be punctual.”

His grin turned sharp– wolfish and polite all at once, that impossible mix that made your pulse skip. “Always am, ma’am.”

Then he was gone.

Striding back into the white blaze of noon, his carrier swinging easily at his side, his uniform somehow neat again– like nothing unholy had just happened in your kitchen.

The scent he left behind lingered thick and sweet, milk and sweat and sin seeping into every corner. The screen door clicked shut with deceptive gentleness, the world outside humming on as if nothing had changed.

You stood barefoot on the slick tile, thighs trembling, skin cooling beneath the trace of his touch. Suburbia’s sweetest, most scandalous secret, streaming down your thighs.

Raw~ Wild, unfiltered, tastes of skin and breath. You’ll come away marked.

The night air hung thick and humid, laced with the dry whisper of hay and the deep, damp rot of earth– a rural hymn punctuated by the sharp chirp of crickets and the distant, mournful lowing of cattle, like ghosts calling out from the shadowy fields. The barn loomed ahead, its weathered wood bathed in the cold silver glow of moonlight. The door emitted a low, inviting creak as you slipped inside, your heart pounding with the frantic rhythm of a trapped animal.

You knew you shouldn't have been there, sneaking onto Sylus's farm under the shroud of darkness like this. Yet, the village whispers about his midnight "labors" in the dairy stalls had lured you in, curling through the shadowed alleys like tendrils of smoke that ignited your imagination. Curiosity burned fiercer than any fear, awakening a primal thrill deep in your core that made trespass feel almost inevitable.

Inside, the barn was dimly lit by a single lantern swinging from a beam overhead, casting leaping shadows across stacked hay bales and rusted tools that seemed to lurk like predators in waiting. You heard him before you saw him: the heavy tread of boots thudding against the packed dirt floor, accompanied by the metallic clink of rope against metal, like chains of temptation being dragged closer.

Then Sylus stepped into the flickering light, his silver hair wild and glinting under the glow, his red eyes sharp with a predatory amusement that pinned you in place the moment they locked onto yours. He stood shirtless, his jeans slung low on hips that radiated raw power, and a coil of rough rope dangled from one hand like a noose waiting for the unwary soul.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice coiling around you like smoke, low and resonant enough to vibrate through your bones and send a shiver down your spine. "It seems I've snared a little lamb in my lair."

Your pulse raced, but you held your ground, lifting your chin in defiance even as a stirring heat bloomed low in your belly. "Just passing through," you replied, your voice sounding steadier than how the quaking turmoil inside you felt.

Sylus closed the distance between you with predatory steps, his presence both cruel and judicious in its intensity. Warmth radiated from his bare skin, flooding your senses with the intoxicating musk of sweat and leather, making your mouth water with an unspoken, forbidden want that you couldn't ignore.

"Passing through is free," he murmured, circling you slowly like a wolf scenting weakness, his eyes raking over your form with a hunger that made your thighs clench instinctively in anticipation. "But lingering in my barn? That demands a certain payment."

His hand lashed out suddenly, fingers curling around the back of your neck in a firm, possessive grip– not painful yet, but thrumming with the implicit threat of what could come. The contact ignited something electric within you, your body arching toward him before your mind could catch up, heat pooling low and slick gathering between your thighs in a rush of arousal.

He guided you backward with unyielding pressure, your boots scuffing across the hay-strewn floor until your back hit a sturdy wooden post with a thud that echoed through the vast space of the barn.

"If you want to romp around in my domain," he continued, his tone laced with dark promise, "then you'll serve the milking– on your knees or bent over. The choice is yours, little prey."

The meaning of his words sank in fully as he pressed even closer, the hard length of his arousal throbbing insistently against your thigh through his jeans, hot and demanding. Your breath hitched sharply, and he smirked in response, his fangs flashing in the lantern's glow like a predator's gleam. With swift, practiced movements, he bound your wrists with the rope, the rough fibers biting into your skin in a delicious burn that contrasted sharply with the heat of his hands, then hooked them overhead to the post, leaving you exposed and vulnerable.

Buttons scattered into the hay like fragments of lost innocence as he tore your shirt open with one forceful yank. The cool night air kissed your bare skin, causing your nipples to peak instantly and gooseflesh to rise across your body as his gaze devoured you, his red eyes darkening with an unmistakable bloodlust.

"Sylus," you whispered, your voice a mix of half-protest and half-plea, your body already betraying you by arching subtly toward him in silent invitation. He was undoing his belt now, the metal buckle clanging ominously in the quiet barn, his cock springing free– thick and heavy, veined like twisted roots, with pre-cum beading at the tip like a pearl of sinful temptation.

"Start here," he commanded, guiding your bound hands to wrap around him despite the constraints. Your rope-constricted fingers struggled to fully encircle his impressive girth, but the slide of his hot, velvety skin under your touch was utterly intoxicating, his veins pulsing beneath your palms like the heartbeat of something wild and untamed. He groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating through the barn and rumbling deep in your chest.

"Fuck, that's it," he growled, his hand tightening on your neck, fingers digging in just enough to make your pulse throb wildly under them as he guided you down to your knees with a firm, insistent push. The hay scratched your skin raw, its earthy scent mingling with his own– sweat-salted and primal– as he pressed himself to your lips, the tip smearing pre-cum across them in a glossy, possessive claim.

"Milk me first, like the needy bitch you are," he ordered, his words dripping with dominance.

You opened your mouth willingly, taking him in, the salty, raw taste of pre-cum and sweat exploding on your tongue and drawing a moan from you that vibrated around his length. His hand fisted in your hair, not gentle but commanding and sure, urging you deeper as the pull on your scalp stung with a hot intensity while you sucked, your tongue tracing the throbbing veins like live wires pulsing with life.

A soft gag escaped you as he hit the back of your throat, your eyes watering and drool spilling from the corners of your mouth in sticky strings that dripped down your chin and onto your chest. He snarled in approval, his hips bucking to force himself even deeper, every snap of his movements building to crescendo the wet, obscene sounds– slurping, gagging, choking– that filled the barn like a symphony of depravity, amplified by the creaking of the surrounding stalls. You scratched at his thighs with your bound hands, nails raking red welts across his skin that made him hiss and thrust harder, turning the encounter into a primal dance of pain and pleasure intertwined.

"Choke on it," he growled, his voice rough as gravel, the hand in your hair pulling scalp-tight as his hips snapped forward to bully his length down your throat, the bulge visible as you swallowed desperately around him, tears streaking your face in hot, salty lines.

His release erupted suddenly, a roar tearing from his chest as he spilled down your throat in thick, hot pulses, overwhelming you as you swallowed desperately to keep up. Some of it escaped past your lips, dribbling over your chin and breasts in creamy rivulets that mixed with your drool and sweat, marking you further.

He panted raggedly, his eyes glazed and feral red, but the hunger in them still burned brightly, undimmed. With a yank on your hair, he pulled you upright and spun you to face the post, the rope pulling taut and burning your wrists as he ripped your pants down roughly, exposing your slick thighs to the cool night air.

"My turn now," he rasped, his voice wrecked and thick with want, his fingers sliding between your folds in a wet glide that parted them easily and made you gasp. He chuckled, his breath hot against your neck as he nipped the skin there, sending sparks of sensation racing through you. "Dripping like a bitch in heat, aren't you? You snuck in here just for this– my cock stretching you raw and filling you up."

He teased your clit with unhurried, tormenting circles, pinching the swollen bud until you bucked against him, then pushed three fingers inside you, curling them deep to find that sensitive spot that made you cry out in ecstasy. Your walls clenched greedily around him, the slick you'd gathered creaming down his hand only heightened the intimacy.

The barn felt alive around you– the creaks of wood, the rustles of hay, and the hum of heat pressing close, animalistic and intimate in its rawness. You scratched at the post, your nails splintering the wood as you growled low and pushed back against his hand, instinct fully taking the reins. He laughed in response, biting your shoulder hard enough to bloom a sting that melted into heat, drawing a yelp from you that quickly dissolved into a moan of pleasure.

"Fight me, little prey," he taunted, his fingers thrusting faster and scissoring to stretch you wider, the sounds slick and filthy echoing in the space. "Scratch, bite– show me your claws and make this even more satisfying."

You twisted in the ropes, snapping your teeth at his arm propped nearby, grazing his skin just enough to draw a reaction, and he growled his approval, his free hand slapping your ass hard in retaliation. The pain flowered hot across your skin, making your pussy clench tighter around his fingers in a wave of heightened arousal. Then, abruptly, he withdrew them, leaving you empty– only to replace his hand with the blunt, insistent press of his cock.

He thrust in without warning, filling you to the hilt in one powerful stroke– the stretch raw and fantastic, a claim that balanced perfectly on the edge of agony and ecstasy. You cried out, the sound echoing wildly off the rafters and into the night.

Your cry earned no mercy from him; instead, his rhythm shifted to something ardent and calculated, every slam of his hips a deliberate statement of possession. The post creaked under the force of each thrust, the rope burning your wrists with every desperate pull as hay pricked your knees, scratching them raw while you bucked back against him, feral and unrestrained in your response.

"Harder, you beast," you snarled, your voice breaking with the intensity of it all.

He obeyed with a raw sound that rumbled from deep in his chest, his hand sliding up to your throat to squeeze just enough for a vignette of darkness to form at the edges of your vision. The restriction transformed the pleasure into something molten and overwhelming– every movement electric and amplified. His breath was hot against your ear as he bit down again, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, the metallic tang of copper filling the air and adding to the sensory overload.

"Gonna milk you dry," he panted, the words rasping through clenched teeth as one hand slid around to your clit, rubbing it rough and fast, pinching in perfect rhythm with his thrusts until you keened high and desperate. The dual assault drowned out all thought, fusing rhythm and friction into one brutal, merciful release.

"Give it to me," he growled, biting your ear with a tug that stung sweetly, and you did– your orgasm crashing through you in shattering waves. Your walls fluttered and clutched around him, squeezing until he followed with a feral groan, spilling hot and thick inside you, claiming every inch as some leaked out to drip in creamy trails down your thighs.

You slumped against the post, your breath coming in ragged gasps as the barn slowly fell quiet around you. But the beast in him wasn't sated yet.

He loosened the rope just enough to spin you around, then shoved you down onto a nearby hay bale with forceful intent. "Not fucking done," he snarled, tying your wrists behind your back anew in a secure knot. His knees spread your thighs wide, his cock still hard and glistening with evidence of your shared passion as he thrust into you again, drawing a cry from your lips. His hands gripped your throat and ass with bruising control, making you arch up toward him as your nails raked his back in return, blooming red welts under your touch that only fueled his fire.

"Take more, you feral slut," he gritted out, his fingers rubbing your clit in furious circles that reignited the blaze within you, slick sloshing with every brutal slam of his hips. Hay stuck to your sweat-slick skin like a second layer of filth, adding to the raw, animalistic feel of it all.

You bit his shoulder hard enough to taste the coppery tang of blood, earning a roar from him that turned his thrusts even more savage and unrestrained.

"Greedy beast," you gasped, your voice wrecked and hoarse. "Rutting like a bitch in heat– you want every last drop, don't you?"

"Mmm–yes," he snarled, his voice breaking with the admission, and the next thrusts became frantic and desperate, driven by pure instinct alone. You came together again, your body arching in ecstasy as he filled you to overflowing, cum spilling out in hot streams that pooled beneath you on the hay in a messy testament to your union.

He pulled out slowly, watching the glistening mess with a look of wild satisfaction etched on his features, then hauled you upright as if you weighed nothing at all. The rope scraped against your skin as he freed your wrists only to retie them in front, the knot as neat and efficient as a farmer's handiwork. He dragged you over to the steel wash basin, pumping the handle until cold well water hammered down onto your skin, sluicing away the sweat, hay, and sin in rivers that trailed down your thighs.

A rough palm scrubbed your neck where his teeth had marked bruises, while his other hand cupped you possessively between the legs, testing and claiming all at once.

"Mine," he declared– not loudly, but with an unshakeable certainty that resonated deep within you.

He slipped a red bandana from his back pocket and tied it at your throat, the knot snug in the hollow like a permanent seal of ownership. His shirt– sun-bleached cotton infused with salt and leather– went around your shoulders next, enveloping you in his scent. His thumb pressed against your swollen clit one final time, callous yet sweet in its touch, making you shiver as a sound between a sigh and a moan escaped your throat.

"You walk home like that," he said, his voice low enough to scrape against your senses. "With my scent clinging to you. So they all know."

He let you go then. The lantern still burned steadily, smoke curling lazily from the wick as he turned away, his boots thudding across the dirt floor. The barn door groaned open, allowing the cool night air to rush in, and you stepped out barefoot into the darkness, the bandana warm against your pulse, the hem of his shirt brushing your thighs like a lingering caress. The fields hummed quiet and wide around you, the air thickened with the sweetness of milk left out too long and the residue of sin, and somewhere behind you, a lock clicked shut with finality.

You walked home glowing with him– claimed, marked, and humming as if the land itself remembered every moment.

Moon~ Cold, luminous, with a pulse beneath the frost. Drink before dreaming.

The greenhouse temple throbbed. Bioluminescent vines gripped its translucent walls, throwing ghost-shadows that writhed like bodies caught mid-embrace.

Inside, the air was syrup-thick– sap and wet earth– clinging to your skin, turning every breath into theft, every exhale into confession.

This place was the colony’s heart: a matriarchal hive where men were penned like animals, their bodies reduced to vessels for seed.

The other women drained them with ritual calm, hands precise and hearts cold.

You burned hotter– drawn to the forbidden heat of real want. You wanted a man alive beneath you, not an emptied shell.

That hunger led you to him– Xavier, the off-worlder whose ship had fallen in a streak of fire.

They called him un-milkable. The elixir never swelled his body for harvest, so they chained him and forgot.

But you had watched him in secret: pale hair catching stray starlight, features too refined for your brutal world. The sight fed your hunger until it became a sin you had to taste.

His prison was webbed with vines; condensation slid down the slick walls in slow, bright tracks.

He hung against the far wall, wrists cut by iron, skin sheened with sweat.

His pants hung low from the struggle, showing the tense lines of his stomach.

A captive god.

You entered and the door groaned shut like a kept secret.

He raised his head slowly, those azure eyes meeting yours– soft as morning fog yet edged with the wariness of a trapped creature.

“Who are you?” The question came gently, stripped of fear, carrying instead a quiet curiosity that brushed against you like a touch too intimate. It quickened your heartbeat in ways you couldn’t justify.

“I’m… different from them,” you said, advancing with careful steps. The air between you thickened with warmth, the sweetness of the potion folding into his subtler scent– clean, human, almost tender. It drew you in, filled your mouth with want you tried to swallow back. “I don’t see you as they do,” you murmured. “Not as something to drain.”

His brow knit, the faint chime of his restraints fracturing the stillness as he shifted. The scrape of iron against skin pulled a wince from him, small but raw.

“They’ve locked me here to… exploit me,” he said, voice low but firm. “But I won’t yield.”

That refusal struck through you– beautiful, unbroken. It was what had drawn you in from the start: not his fragility, but the pulse of will beneath it. You weren’t here to break him open. You were here because you wanted to feel him, to know the heat and spirit they’d tried to cage.

“You won’t have to yield,” you whispered, stepping closer until his breath mingled with yours. Heat rolled off him, wrapping around you like a breath made flesh. Your fingertips found his jaw, tracing the line of bone with a reverence that trembled. He flinched, breath catching, his lips parting just enough to tempt.

“Let me show you something deeper.”

His gaze searched yours– hesitation melting into something softer, curious, yielding not in defeat but in choice. And when you leaned in, his lips met yours halfway, the kiss slow and tentative at first, then deliberate– the quiet meeting of two hungers trying not to consume.

The kiss deepened by degrees, unhurried and exploratory– his lips warm and pliant despite the pull of his chains. He tasted faintly of something celestial, clean and strange, a sweetness that made you chase more. Your tongue brushed his, coaxing a low, helpless sound that rolled from his chest and filled the humid air like a quiet prayer. The restraints rattled softly as he leaned forward, body answering instinct before thought could intervene.

You broke away slowly, lips trailing down the line of his throat, then lower across his chest where your mouth found a nipple. You licked gently, drawing it into your mouth, tasting salt and the faint musk of sweat. His body jerked in response, a soft “Ah– ” spilling out, half-breath, half-benediction, the sound threading through the thickening tension like a note struck on sacred air.

"What... are you doing?" he breathed– not a command to stop, but a quiver infused with urgent want, making the space between you pulse with unvoiced need.

"Pleasing you," you replied, your lips skimming his flesh as you descended, following the hard contours of his belly where muscles contracted and shook under your touch, damp with perspiration.

You dropped to your knees, hands tugging at his pants with a measured slowness, the fabric scraping down his thighs before falling to the floor. His cock was already half-hard, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum that caught the light like forbidden honey. The sight alone sent a rush of heat through you, settling low and heavy, your breath catching as you stared up at him.

“Wait,” he exhaled, voice strained, the chains above him rattling as he shifted. “You don’t have to– ”

His words broke off as your tongue slid from base to tip in a long, deliberate stroke. The taste hit instantly– salt and faint sweetness mingled with the warmth of skin– and his groan filled the small space, deep and involuntary. His head fell back with a dull thud against the wall as you took him into your mouth.

You began slow, lips sealing around the swollen crown while your tongue traced lazy circles, gathering the slick bead that tasted both alien and human, sweet and briny. He twitched under you, breath shuddering out between clenched teeth. “Fuck,” he whispered, barely audible, as if admitting something he shouldn’t. His cock hardened further, the veins standing out beneath your tongue.

You set a rhythm– steady, unhurried– one hand braced on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. Each pull drew another sound from him, quiet at first, then unraveling into breathy, helpless moans. The chains overhead chimed faintly with each shiver, their metallic echo joining the wet slide of your mouth. Drool slicked your lips, spilling down to mingle with the sheen of pre-cum coating his shaft, the mess glimmering as you swallowed him deeper.

When he hit the back of your throat, you held him there, the pressure making your eyes sting and your pulse hammer. He gasped your name– half-choked, half-prayer– and his body trembled. The next moment, he came undone with a soft, strangled sound, warmth spilling over your tongue in heavy pulses. You swallowed greedily, but it was too much– thick, hot, unstoppable. It slipped past your lips, streaking your chin, your throat, your chest, until he sagged against the chains, shaking, spent.

You licked your lips, catching what lingered, the taste clinging to you– salt, sweetness, the faint hum of something unearthly– and looked up at him, breath still ragged.

He gasped for air, eyes half-closed and hazy with satisfaction, his body slack in the restraints, but your hunger only flared hotter. Rising slowly, you undressed with deliberate care, the cool air brushing against flushed skin and raising goosebumps that trailed like static under your touch. You pressed yourself to him, your breasts flattening to his chest, nipples tightening from the friction. His cock remained hard– slick from your mouth and his release– and when you slid your cunt along its length, the motion was obscene and perfect, your juices coating him in slick webs that strung between you, each pass sending jolts through your body like electric current.

“What… now?” he rasped, voice frayed by fatigue and rekindled desire, his bound hands flexing helplessly above.

“Possessing you,” you murmured, voice low but laced with certainty, a quiet confession edged with hunger. “As I’ve wanted from the start.”

You guided him to your entrance and sank down in one measured motion, the head breaching you first, then the thick length stretching your cunt until you trembled with the delicious ache. He groaned, deep and broken, his head falling forward, lips grazing your shoulder as you began to move. Each rise and fall of your hips turned liquid, sensual, rhythmic– the chains clanged faintly above you, echoing your pace, and the vines beyond the walls seemed to pulse with it, the whole chamber breathing in time with your movement. The air was dense with heat and scent: sap, sweat, salt, the musk of bodies joined in a single motion.

Your hands roamed freely, tracing the ridges of his torso, fingers tweaking his nipples to draw those small, intoxicating sounds, feeling each tremor that shuddered through him. His skin slicked under your palms, the shared sweat turning every glide more depraved.

The pleasure built in relentless waves– your clit catching on each downward stroke, your cunt gripping him in greedy, steady pulses that milked him mercilessly, slick pouring down your thighs in warm, sticky rivers mixed with remnants of his earlier release. His quiet moans, each one trembling with need, pulled you closer to the brink.

“Feels… incredible,” he breathed, the words barely audible, and they struck you like fire. You came with a ragged cry, your cunt convulsing wildly around him, every nerve singing. He followed seconds later, his next release bursting deep within you in thick, scalding floods– hot, heavy, filling you to the brim until the overflow trickled down your legs in creamy, shameless streams that caught the lantern’s light.

You slumped against him, your breathing syncing with his– ragged, uneven, shared in the thick heat of the air. The restraints still held him upright, his body trembling under the weight of spent desire as you steadied yourself against him. Around you, the temple seemed alive, its vines shivering with faint luminescence, the walls pulsing as though echoing your release. “You’re not livestock,” you murmured, brushing a kiss against his mouth, tasting the salt of sweat and cum mingled on your tongues. “You’re mine.”

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, his tongue chasing yours with renewed hunger. When you tried to pull away, he whimpered softly, a broken sound of protest. “Not finished,” he rasped, voice wrecked but alive.

You pressed him harder into the wall, searching his face for hesitation. There was none– only raw want. His cock, still hard and gleaming with your mingled fluids, spoke for him. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then guided him to your entrance again.

He thrust upward, burying himself in one smooth, unrestrained motion that dragged a cry from your throat. You gripped his neck and shoulder, fingers sinking in hard enough to bruise, forcing a sharp intake of breath from him. “The seed’s not all spent yet, is it?” you taunted, your voice breaking with effort as you slammed down onto him again, the wet smack of your bodies echoing through the chamber.

“Mm– take more,” you urged, rubbing your clit in fast, desperate circles that sent new shocks through your core, your cunt gushing around him with every brutal drop. He groaned, low and guttural, thrusting up to meet you, the floor beneath turning slick and messy, puddled with cum and sweat that streaked your thighs in obscene trails.

“Greedy,” you gasped, matching the ferocity of his pace, each downward stroke hitting the perfect angle, each drag wringing a helpless sound from him. “You want me to take every last drop from you, don’t you?”

“Y– yes,” he choked out, body shaking under the strain. You broke with him again, your climax tearing through you, your cunt clenching him in violent, milking spasms as your scream shattered the heavy air. His release followed instantly, hot and endless, spilling deep inside until the excess overflowed, running down your legs in thick, pearled streams that gathered beneath you.

You lifted off him slowly, watching the ruin you’d made– his body slack in the restraints, head bowed, eyes unfocused and dazed. The sight made something proud stir in your chest. You reached up, brushed his hair from his face, and whispered, hoarse and triumphant, “Good boy. Drained right at last.”

His eyes found yours– gentle and probing, with a spark of total submission in their blue. "Come back," he said softly, the vow in his words embedding deep in you. "Please."

As you left the chamber, his flavor still on your tongue, the tacky heat in your cunt a solid memento, you knew you'd return without question.

The door locked the space; the vines continued throbbing in the gloom, and he remained suspended there, radiant with what you'd wrought.

Thanks for reading <3

✦ STRWBRRY'S BULLETS